Edeet Ravel: Look for Me

“Please let me through. Please. I want to see my husband. I haven’t seen him in eleven years.” I stared at his sunglasses, at my own distorted face in the silvery lenses.

“Maybe he doesn’t want to see you.”

“He does. He real y does.”

“What the hel is he doing living in a Palestinian city?”

“Hiding.”

“What did you do to him?” he joked.

“It isn’t funny.”

“He must be a bit wrong in the head. What do you need that for? You’re bet er of without him, believe me. Smoke?”

“No thanks.”

He lit a cigaret e and looked at me, or at least I assumed he was looking at me; I couldn’t be sure because of his glasses. He smiled cynical y. “So, Dana, Dana. What are we going to do with you, Dana?”

“I’m not leaving.”

“We’l just have to take you back, then. It may take a while, though.”

“Fine. Then I’l come back another time and I’l just sneak in and I’l get shot and it wil be your fault,” I said. “Because nothing is going to stop me. I’ve waited eleven years and if I can’t see my husband I don’t care if I live or die. And it’s going to be your fault, yours personal y.

You’l see my picture in the paper and you’l know I died because of you.”

He was upset when I said that. I couldn’t tel by looking at his face, but I sensed it in his body, in the air between us.

“You can’t sneak in.”

“Yes I can. I’l just bypass the roadblock, or run through. And some guard wil order me to stop and I won’t and he’l think I’m Palestinian and he’l shoot me. Or else some militant wil think I’m a set ler and kil me. Either way, I’l die.”

He paused, and I could see him trying to decide what to do. Final y he made up his mind. “Okay. okay, I’l let you through.”

“Thank you.”

“How long are you planning to stay?”

“I don’t know. Not long.”

“I’m trusting you.”

“Do I look like a dangerous person?”

“Looks don’t mean anything. And your husband—wel , he’s gone over to the other side. He’s obviously dangerous.”

“My husband is a recluse. He was burned in an accident in the army, he’s disfigured, that’s why he’s hiding.”

“What kind of stupid reason is that?”

“You’re right, it’s stupid.”

“I never heard of such a thing. It’s bul shit. He’s obviously not tel ing you everything. Be careful, don’t trust him. You’re too trusting, I can see that.”

“Okay.”

“And you … eleven years. Why can’t you face the fact that he’s lost interest in you? You remind me of my girlfriend. Three years she wouldn’t get the message—I had to get a court order in the end. What is it with you women?”

“I don’t know.”

“You can go. Be careful, Dana. Use your head.”

I desperately needed a few minutes alone. I ducked behind a tree and tried to make myself very smal as I slid to the ground, my back against the trunk. A faint, damp smel of sewage water hung in the air, and the current crop on this patch of land was cigaret e but s. My body felt brit le, as if my veins had turned into electric wires. I remembered dreams I’d had when my mother died: I would lift a panel on my skin and discover that I was made not of esh and bone but of robot parts and bat eries. I reached into my bag and touched the soft silk of the dressing gown. It now seemed a very odd thing to do, bringing a silk dressing gown to this place—like clutching at a box of candy during a shipwreck. But I didn’t care. Touching the dressing gown comforted me.

I took my phone out of my pocket and cal ed Ra . This time he answered. “I’m so glad you cal ed. I heard what happened from El a. Are you al right?”

“El a cal ed you?”

“I cal ed her, after I got your message.”

“Wel , I got through. I got past the checkpoint, I’m on my way to Qal’at al-Maraya.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m sit ing on the side of the road at the moment. Hiding behind a tree.”

“El a said you were arrested. She said some asshole beat you.”

“Yeah, but I’m fine now. The main thing is that I got through.”

“You’re okay?”

“Yes. Rafi?”

“I’m here.”

“I love you.”

“Thank you for cal ing, Dana.”

“Thank you for cal ing, Dana.”

“I’l always love you.”

“I’l expect that in triplicate, please. By Tuesday at the latest.”

“I felt real y bad a few minutes ago, but I’m bet er now.”

“Be careful, Dana.”

“I’m already a hero here.”

“Just be careful. No one trusts anyone, and that includes you.”

“I think I’m only about twenty minutes from the city. Oh … I’ve been found.” Five teenage boys and two lit le girls had emerged out of nowhere. They appeared to be brothers and sisters. “I have to go,” I said. “I’l cal you later. I promise.” I rose and smiled at the kids.

“Hi, how are you?” a thin boy wearing black rubber boots asked me in English.

“Fine. How are you?”

“Where from?”

“South Africa.”

“Welcome, welcome. Stay with us in house?”

“I can’t. I’m on my way to see my husband.”

“You want almond?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“I go bring,” the boy said. He gave the other children instructions, and dashed away.

“Brothers and sisters?” I asked.

The smal est girl nodded. She was a bright lit le thing, and I was not surprised that she already understood English.

The boy returned almost instantly with almonds wrapped in newspaper. “Thank you,” I said. I took out my wal et and gave them ve shekels, each. They were delighted, and began debating among themselves in Arabic; my guess was that they were trying to decide whether to ask for more, seeing as I was both a mil ionaire and generous.

“I have to go now,” I said. “Be careful,” I added. The boy burst out laughing. He translated what I’d said to the others, and they al laughed.

“Be careful, not die!” the boy echoed. “Be careful!” Then he led his troupe away.

I turned toward the road and an empty transit stopped immediately.

“I have to get to Qal’at al-Maraya.” I showed the driver the address.

“I take you,” he said. He was a lined, leathery man who looked as though he’d spent his entire life resisting the elements, with only partial success.

My heart began beating fast again as we drove. When we entered the city, I began to tremble.

“Qal’at al-Maraya,” the driver announced proudly.

I stared out of the window and tried to calm down. I remembered the rst time I saw the city, how surprised I was by its size. High-rises, wide streets, boulevards lined with palm trees, hundreds of new sun-bleached apartment and o ce buildings, wealthy suburbs that looked like country clubs. The poorer areas were lively and noisy, and seemed shielded by the powerful presence of the sea. At dusk, a soft mauve light enveloped the entire city like a veil.

“It’s changed a lit le since I was last here,” I told the transit driver.

He sighed and shook his head. “Yes, many change. Look.” He slowed down as we passed a scene of devastation: col apsed buildings, piles of rubble, broken glass everywhere. In big red let ers someone had scrawled on the remains of a wal , Gift from America. The wal was riddled with holes.

“Here fifteen dead. Four children, one baby.”

There were other signs of distress in the city. Stores were closed and there was graf iti everywhere. Lit er had accumulated on the sidewalks and several lampposts were bent out of shape. Skinny cats dashed behind cars; a garbage pail had rol ed into the middle of the road and the driver had to stop the car and move the pail to the sidewalk. Very few people were out on the streets.