Edeet Ravel - Look for Me

“I’m so nervous, you can’t imagine. Should I bring something? This is boring for you …”

“No, not at al . Though I should probably be get ing back to work.” He yawned and stretched his arms. “Never enough sleep. We had two busloads of tourists yesterday.”

“Tourists …” I said, barely listening.

“Yes, a Christian group. ‘Jesus Is the One,’ something like that. At least someone wants to visit the Holy Land.”

“Thanks, Coby. Thanks for the address. You don’t know what this means to me.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t have bet er news.”

“This is great news. He isn’t dead, he isn’t with another woman. I can’t wait!”

“I hope it works out. I hope you can convince him to come home.”

“Yes. Yes.”

“I have to get back to work. Let me know how things turn out. I’m not sure I did the right thing—if anything happens to you, it’s on my shoulders.”

“Nothing wil happen.”

“Help yourself to the breakfast buf et, by the way. There’s always a lot left over anyhow. Even with the Christians here.”

I sat at the table in the hotel dining room and tried to imagine my husband in Qal’at al-Maraya, living in a lit le flat there, or maybe renting a room in someone’s house. How wel did he know Arabic? Had he taught himself? He must have hired a teacher. Could he read and write Arabic too? Did he go out? How did he support himself? Maybe the money from the army was enough—things were cheaper there. What were his days like, day in, day out, alone in a Palestinian city? He had probably made some friends. But how did he get them to trust him?

He had vanished during the uprising— how had he managed to move in without being kil ed? And what about now? Everything he loved was here: going to shows and walking down the streets and the crazy people on television, laughing at them and cracking jokes and making al sorts of puns, and the sea … wel , he stil had the sea. I could have sent him a message in a bot le.

From the window of the dining hal I saw a man approach my building. He was carrying a large toolbox and walking very deliberately to the front door. I wondered who he was; it was way too early for Tanya to be prophesying. Maybe she or her mother had some sort of plumbing emergency. Then it hit me: this was probably the locksmith Ra had promised to send my way, to protect me from evil. I hurried out of the hotel and into the building.

The locksmith was standing at the door to my apartment, knocking loudly. Then he kicked the door. “Open up!” he yel ed.

“It’s me, I’m here,” I said.

“You Dana?”

“Yes.”

“Unlock.”

“It’s open,” I said.

He flung the door open and bel owed at me, “Out of my way!” Then he reconsidered. “Money up front or I’m going home.”

“Okay. Just tel me how much it is.”

“Okay. Just tel me how much it is.”

“Two hundred.”

I gave him the money and he stu ed the bil s in his back pocket. I was a lit le worried about him; I was afraid he was going to have a nervous breakdown in front of my eyes. I could imagine him picking up his hammer and smashing al the wal s in the building.

He began taking apart the lock on my door. He was a short, stocky man with a wide face, narrow eyes, and a pursed mouth. His eyes weren’t natural y narrow; he was just very tense. He began cursing the door and various other opponents.

“Fuck his fucking mother,” he said.

“Who?” I asked.

He looked up at me and tried to decide whether to swear at me or to answer. Final y he said, “Fucking son of a whore who at acked me, I’l rip his fucking heart out and throw it to the dogs. Look what he did—”

I saw that his arm was covered with blood and that in fact he was stil bleeding. I wondered how I’d failed to notice: maybe it was because he was hairy, or maybe his anger eclipsed everything else about him.

“I’l get something for that,” I said.

“Don’t bother.”

I went to the kitchen and ran a towel under warm water. I brought it to the locksmith and said, “Here, put this on it.”

“What are you, a fucking nurse?”

“You could get an infection. You should real y come in and wash your arm.”

He took the towel and threw it on the floor. “Screw this,” he said.

“What happened?”

“Fucking maniacs. Her husband wasn’t supposed to be anywhere around, and what’s it my business anyhow, I just do the locks, I’m not her fucking lover, I don’t know this person from a whore on the street. But I’m the one who gets at acked.”

“Why didn’t you cal the police?”

He guf awed. “Anyhow, I beat him up good. Gave him a run for his money, damned bastard.”

“I guess I’m out of my depth here.”

“That’s right, baby. Nice place you got here. Who you keeping out? I swear if I have any more crazy boyfriends today I’m not responsible for my actions.”

“I’m not keeping anyone out, and I don’t have a boyfriend. And I think everyone’s responsible for their actions.”

He looked up at me. I stepped back.

He returned to his work, let ing out his rage on the lock. I made co ee while he worked and when it was ready I handed him a mug. He seemed very surprised.

“Thanks,” he said.

“You’re welcome. You know, you’re very good-looking, but your face is so strained.”

“Yeah, wel , life’s a bitch.”

“I guess you’re in a hard line of work.”

“Bet er than fixing people’s toilets. Bet er than being up to your arms in other people’s shit.”

“Is that what you used to do?”

“Stil do. Why you changing your lock?”

“I gave my key to a lot of people. And the guy who cal ed you thinks it isn’t safe, he wants me to have a new lock. That’s al .”

“He’s right. Everyone’s a fucking crook out there.”

“Do you want to come in and wash your arm?”

“Yeah, may as wel .”

He had a strident way of walking and I was afraid he’d bump into something or accidental y turn over a piece of furniture. He went into the bathroom and rinsed his arm. “Looks like the fucking Taj Mahal in here,” he said, as the water from the tap turned red. I gave him another towel. “What are you, Mother Teresa?”

“If I were injured, I’d expect you to do the same for me. And I’l bet you would.”

“I’l bet I wouldn’t.”

“I’l bet you would.”

“I’l bet I wouldn’t.”

“I’l bet you would.”

“You’re pret y stubborn, in your own quiet way.”

“Yes, I am.”

He smiled. “You’re okay.”

“You look very nice when you smile.”

“What, are you coming on to me?”

“No, as I’m sure you can tel .”

“Yeah, you’re a bit of a cold fish, aren’t you?”

“Thanks.”

“Not real y a cold fish, but, I don’t know, a mermaid maybe?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“I’l just finish up with the door. It’s nearly done.”

“There’s a woman upstairs who tel s fortunes. You should try her out.” I figured one of Tanya’s massages would do him good.

“Why?”

“She’s real y good.”

“I don’t believe in that fucking shit.”

“She’s dif erent.”

“What, you get ing a cut?”

“I don’t care if you go or not. It was just a suggestion.”

“Wel , maybe. How much does she charge?”

“Around fifty.”

“I’l think about it.”

When he’d left I knocked on Volvo’s door. I was hoping Alex would be there.

Alex was Daniel’s oldest friend. In high school he had formed the lit le band that had played at my cousin’s wedding, and when Daniel nished his army service, they traveled together to Italy, Paris, Greece, and South America. Alex had a release from the army because he was albino; there was a military clause somewhere that exempted albinos, for no good reason—but Alex wasn’t complaining.