Edeet Ravel - Look for Me

“She was a lit le paranoid.”

“Who lives there now? That old couple, who are they?”

“Her relatives, I think. She died, and they moved in.”

“Does he stil pay rent?”

“No, not for a long time now. But I stil pick up his mail here, no one minds.”

I took the envelope from her and stared at the label. “Does he get other mail, too?”

“Not real y. His mother writes now and then.”

“Not real y. His mother writes now and then.”

“His mother!”

“Yes, she figured out he was get ing his mail. And she was right.”

I ran out of the building, ran to the bushes in the back, and retched. El a held my forehead, as if I were a lit le child.

“Dana, are you with us?”

El a had pul ed my hair back with her hands. I remembered going to my aunt, Belinda, because I thought I had lice. I was in high school, and I didn’t want anyone to know, so I went to Belinda, who was an obstetrician. She sat me down on her lit le round piano stool, next to the balcony, where the light was best. She lifted strands of hair, looked behind my ears, my neck, and suddenly I realized that she was playing with my hair, just playing with my hair entirely for her own pleasure.

“Dana?”

“I’m okay,” I said.

“Have some water.” She handed me her bot led water and we walked back to the car.

When we were on the highway, El a said, “We’l only have two checkpoints, if we’re lucky. The one at Selah shouldn’t be a problem—no one’s al owed out of the Coastal Strip, just about, so it’s pret y dead. But the checkpoints inside the strip are total pandemonium. It’s going to be a long wait once we’re inside.”

I was shivering. El a said, “This is very hard for you.”

“Why didn’t you tel me I could write? Why didn’t his mother tel me?”

“She had no way of knowing whether her let ers ever reached Daniel. She never had an answer.”

“It’s my fault, I stopped seeing his family, I stopped going over.”

“Daniel saw you on television, he heard you on the radio— it was very clever, what you did. Bet er than a let er, don’t you think?”

“Yes.” I was finding it hard to concentrate. “How did he do it? How did he go into hiding there?”

“I don’t know the details. Maybe he’l tel you about it.”

“But if the army has his real address, how come they send the checks to that place?”

She shrugged. “Dif erent department, I guess.”

“What does he do there?”

“He’s a teacher.”

“A teacher!”

“Yes, he teaches math and science, and also English.”

“Does he have cable?”

“Yes.”

“Does he have friends?”

“That’s the impression I get.”

“You never told me …”

“No, I never told you, Dana. When Daniel rst asked me to keep his whereabouts a secret he persuaded me that it was for the best, that you didn’t love him. But then I decided, later, that he was wrong and we fought about it. I told him he was being unfair and put ing me in a horrible position, as if I don’t have enough on my shoulders already. I don’t want you to talk about this to anyone, but one of my col eagues once got someone kil ed. He thought he disguised the information enough in his article but he didn’t. He nearly had a nervous breakdown, even though he’s not the first person it’s happened to and he won’t be the last.”

“He can’t assume it was his fault.”

“You tel yourself, ‘It wasn’t necessarily me, it wasn’t necessarily my article,’ but deep inside, you know it was. I have to keep secrets, I have no choice. I real y tried to get him to cal you. But Daniel’s stubborn, as stubborn as you are. He wouldn’t give in.”

“Did he say he missed me?”

“He didn’t have to say. I think he saw you once on the beach, when you came to photograph. He can see a section of the beach from his window.”

“My God.”

“It must have been hard for him, too.”

“Never mind. It’s al over now, I’m going to see him, the nightmare’s over.”

“How did you find out?”

“Just by fluke.”

“It shows you how cut o we are, that no one found out about Daniel. We’re worlds apart, even though in half an hour we’re going to be at the border.”

“I’ve been to other checkpoints, but never to Selah. This is the first time in years that I’ve gone somewhere like this without my camera.”

“I’d be interested in seeing your photos sometime.”

“Usual y I take pictures of people, but at the checkpoints I mostly photograph objects, because they tel you a lot. Once the army sent the border guards some breakfast in a cardboard container, but it was just apples and yogurt, and the guards were so disgusted they kicked the container. I took a photo of the smashed apples and the yogurt spil ing out. The container stayed there al day, in the middle of the road, cars drove over it, and it kept get ing messier and messier. No one cares. Sometimes I get the feeling the guards are high.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Wel , I don’t know for sure, but I’ve never seen people behaving that way without drugs. Laughing hysterical y, hugging each other, I’d guess it’s E. Just once or twice, I got that impression. The worst things I’ve seen, I’ve seen at checkpoints. Wel , I don’t have to tel you, you see it every day.”

see it every day.”

“There’s always some new craziness.”

“How come you were up al night?”

“Someone had a problem …” she said vaguely.

“Wil you write about it?”

“Maybe.”

“What’s Daniel’s life like? Does he speak Arabic?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Yes, you said he was a teacher. He’d have to anyhow, to get by. It’s so hard to imagine, though … is he happy?”

“I don’t know, Dana. How can I know something like that?”

“What does he look like? Is he very dif erent?”

“You’l see for yourself.”

“But he teaches kids.”

“Everyone’s used to him in the community. He’s wel liked.”

“I can’t picture him as a teacher. He’s so goofy. How often do you see him? How often do you talk to him?”

“I go over once a month,” she said and there was something in the way she said it that gave me a jolt. I wondered if what I’d heard in her voice was the memory of sex. She must have sensed my suspicion, because she added a lit le too quickly, as if to cover her tracks, “I bring him his check and things he wants from the city—books, music.”

But I refused to be distracted. “Do you fuck?” I asked, and my cal ousness surprised me. I’d never spoken to anyone that way.

Her phone rang, and when the conversation was over, we both pretended I hadn’t asked her the question, or that she hadn’t heard me.

“We’re here,” she said, slowing down.

We had reached Selah, the checkpoint at the northern end of the Coastal Strip. The only other vehicles were carrying people to and from the set lements. We were waved through; they didn’t even ask to see my permit.

Seeing the Coastal Strip brought back a ood of memories: the beach, the smel of sea salt and falafel, Palestinian families having picnics on the sand, the bossy young men, the daring women who went into the water with their skirts hitched up. Once a man slapped his wife and al the women on the beach surrounded him with shouts and accusations, while he stood there helplessly; it was only with the greatest e ort that I restrained myself from photographing them. There was hope back then, even though it turned out to be an il usion.

Then I remembered that I was going to see Daniel very soon, and my heart began pounding hard and fast.

Almost immediately after Selah, we hit another checkpoint. This one was very chaotic.