by Danny Bar
“’It’s his first time,’ he said and pointed at the youth.
“’Leave it to me,’ I told him, ‘I will guide him down the paths of my garden, just like a mother guides the first steps of her child. He will quench his thirst off my body and eat his fill of my fruits.’
“’Yalla, ya habibi,’ the older man urged the youth, ushered him inside and closed the door after him. I could see that he cared for the boy.
“But the youth remained standing. ‘If you plan on standing there all day, just let me know, I’ll go to the market for some grocery shopping in the meanwhile,’ I teased him.
“’But what about your a’rd, your honor?’ that innocent youth asked me with a grim face.
“I haven’t laughed that hard in years, ya Morris, no one has ever said something like that to me.
“’Do you remember when you stopped suckling from your mother’s breasts?’ I asked the youth, ‘that was more or less the time I lost my a’rd. Now come to Rasmiyah and let her teach you a few things she has learned since then.’
“He sat on my bed and I saw something bulging under his shirt. I wanted to see what it was, so I shouted at him, ‘What is this stench? Even a dead mouse smells better than you.’ I sent him to bathe, but not in my shower, I don’t allow anyone in there, it is my temple.
“He undressed and left his gun on the chair. I quickly examined it and wrote down its model on a piece of paper.
“When he finished showering, the youth came back with nothing but a towel covering his body and sat beside me. I stroked his face and asked him where he came from, but I saw that he was afraid to answer and constantly looked at the door.
“’Don’t worry, Rasmiyah knows everyone’s secrets and betrays none of them. It all remains right here,’ I told him and placed his hands under my shirt so he could feel my breasts. ‘See how full of secrets they are? You won’t find a larger pair in all of Bethlehem.’
“He said nothing, so I pulled him to me and took off his towel.
“’I’ve never been with a woman like this…’ the poor thing apologized.
“’Even I was once just like you, don’t worry,’ I calmed him, ‘nature has its way of fixing everything… but tell me, you speak with a Gazan dialect,’ I said and sent a hand to stroke his thighs.
“’True, I come from Gaza, from the Al Shati refugee camp,’ he barely mumbled.
“I placed my hand on his genitals, knowing this would turn him completely mindless.
“’And where do you live now?’
“He started grunting like a mule, ‘In a cave next to Sheikh Sablan’s grave,’ he answered.
“’And who is this man who came with you?’ I asked.
“’Bilal?’
“’Yes,’ I told him and continued stroking, ‘is he your friend?’
“’No, I mean, yes, he is my superior.’
“I squeezed his penis hard and saw that he could barely breathe, ‘are you a man like him?’ I asked.
“’Yes, yes…’ he panted, I knew the end was near, ‘Come to me,’ I told him and lay on my back. I sent a hand and guided him inside me.
“He groaned like a rutting stallion .”
The interrogator stopped Rasmiyah, whether from embarrassment or simply because he wanted to get to the genuinely important details.
“What happened?” she asked the interrogator with wonder.
“I don’t want to hear those details, tell me about the other man.”
“I was just getting to it,” she said.
“All right, but hurry up.”
“So where were we?” asked Rasmiyah and continued her story, “Oh, yes, with the boy.
“I placed my hands on his back and rocked him from side to side like a baby to make him move faster, because it was already getting late,” she explained to the interrogator and continued.
“’Does it feel good?’ I asked him.
“’Yes,’ he was barely able to answer. His eyes were closed, but his body swayed up and down wildly, like a galloping horse. I stroked his head until he started trembling all over. Then he lay motionless on top of me.
“But I wasn’t worried, you are all like that,” she smiled at “Morris” and described how a happy smile rose to the youth’s face, and then he did not let go of her for a second before climaxing. Only then did she urge him to get up and get dressed.
“I accompanied him outside and the older man rose to greet us, ‘Well, how was he?’ he took an interest.
“’You can tell that he ate a lot of beans as a baby,’ I said and winked at him.
“The youth laughed happily and stood there like a peacock proudly spreading its feathers.
“’What about you?’ I teased the older man.
“’Me?’ he was surprised.
“’Yes, you, I don’t see any other men in here. But perhaps I’m wrong and you’re not a man at all, I’ve had some of those too. They came into my room like big heroes and went out like grapes shrunk to the size of raisins.’
“’I’m a real man,’ he proudly said and beat his own chest with his fist.
“’I’ll be the judge of that,’ I said and pulled him to my room. He took off his shirt and I saw a large Cedar of Lebanon tattoo on his left shoulder. From that moment on, I lost interest in him and impatiently sent a hand to his genitals to spur him on.”
Rasmiyah finished her tale and sighed.
“Give me a light,” she asked the interrogator.
He lit her cigarette and she blew smoke rings, tilting her head back and continuing, “Jamil was my customer too. He said he loved a young, beautiful woman who wouldn’t give herself to him, and that was why he came to me.”
“And what does he have to do with our story?” asked Morris with curiosity.
“Oh, I was just getting to that. Do you remember the squad you found in my house? Of course you do. You personally came in with the army and smashed the beautiful ceramic tiles I had in my shower.”
“Of course I remember, but you forgot to mention the whole squad was hiding behind those beautiful ceramic tiles,” he answered her with a smile.
She blew cigarette smoke in his face and ignored his words, “The squad members sat in jail and wondered who it was that had turned them in. They suspected me at first, but were convinced it was impossible, because during their interrogation you told them things I couldn’t possibly have known. Then they thought it might be the swarthy guy who visited me with A’mer. They didn’t know his real name, but his nickname was ‘Bilal.’”
“This was how you recognized him?” the interrogator marveled.
Rasmiyah smiled.
“No. But the squad members told me they were hiding with him in a cave in the Hamam Al Malih area. One day, they went to bathe in the hot spring and when he took off his shirt they saw a Cedar of Lebanon tattoo on his shoulder. I wanted to check it, which was why I took him into my bed. There aren’t any secrets there, I find out everything. I even recognize Jews coming to me from Jerusalem, no matter how hard they try to speak fine and eloquent Arabic,” she laughed.
“What happened then?”
“With the Jews?” she asked.
“No, Rasmiyah, with the two men,” the interrogator answered her angrily.
“Oh, I realized he and the youth were cooperating with you. Next day, Jamil came to see me. As usual, he didn’t say much, just took off his clothes and got into bed. Before he began, I told him the story. He asked me if I was sure the man’s name was A’mer. Then, when I told him he was a young man from the Al Shati refugee camp, he lost his manhood, if you get my meaning,” she winked at Morris.
“Yes, yes,” he told her impatiently, “go on.”
“Jamil became very nervous. I tried to calm him down, but couldn’t, ya Morris, and I know how to calm nervous people down. I can help you relax too, I
can tell that you are bothered by many uneasy thoughts.”
“Halas, Rasmiyah, enough.”
“All right, don’t get yourself worked up,” she waved her head dismissively and coiled another smoke ring into the air.
“What time was it?”
“I can’t remember. Hold on, the Armenian goldsmith comes to see me every week at seven, and this happened at about that time, a little before he knocked on my door.”
“Will Jamil be coming back to see you?” he asked.
“He will, God willing, he hasn’t paid me yet,” she said with a frown.
31
The Judea road was packed with the vehicles of Palestinians making their way home at the end of another workday. In a bend down the road, close to the village of Idna, snaked a long line of vehicles, headed by an ambulance whose emergency lights were flashing.
A tow truck was parked on the road, trying to rescue a blue car that had crashed down into the wadi and was now lying upturned.
“An accident,” the drivers standing next to their vehicles updated each other.
“Are there any casualties?”
“I think so,” the first one answered and shrugged.
Paramedics emerged from the ambulance, took out a stretcher and slid down the slope toward the car. The first driver in line dared to approach the edge of the road and take a look down the wadi so he could update the others. Army vehicles reached the area and began to assist in bringing up the stretcher now bearing a wounded man. The tow truck pulled up the blue car and hauled it onto the road. It was battered on each side from the impact of rolling down the slope.
“A Mukhabarat vehicle,” the word quickly spread from the first car in the line down to the last. Such news tends to spread like wildfire.
“Whose? Captain Baylee’s?” asked someone with hope.
“No,” the driver of the transporter in front of him scolded the man, “Captain Baylee has a white Mitsubishi.”
“Perhaps it’s Abu Samir’s?” tried the Mercedes driver, recalling how Abu Samir had summoned him last year for a “get-know-you chat,” at the end of which he had subtly tried to recruit him.
“But he couldn’t sway me,” he told his suspicious friends with pride, immediately realizing his mistake.
“A blue Mazda,” the truck driver reported as the stretcher was placed not far from him on the road. That new information spread like lightning, “It’s Abu Ghazall.”
“They say that a truck driver crashed into his vehicle and forced him off the road.” A young man driving a red Toyota covered with stickers and decals was the one passing on that new rumor.
The drivers at the end of the line already knew that the truck driver had done it to avenge his brother’s arrest.
“I saw with my own eyes how he smashed right into him and hurled his car off the road,” one of them lied.
“Dragged it,” another added.
“Abu Ghazall is badly injured,” added the first, and at the end of the line, people already declared Abu Ghazall’s death.
The paramedics and soldiers placed the stretcher in the ambulance, which took off and left the area with its sirens wailing. A few minutes later, the road was reopened for traffic and the long line of vehicles dispersed.
“Well, how was I?” asked Amos, while sitting on the stretcher, removing the brace that supported his head and unwrapping the red bandage from his head. Eran, the Operations team officer, took a small sponge and thoroughly cleaned the “blue marks” he had earlier applied to Amos’ face before the “accident.” Amos’ clothes were torn and stained with red color. He took out some clean clothes from a bag he had brought from home.
“Now let’s make sure word of this quickly gets to the Al Fajr newspaper, I’m sure they would be delighted to let their readers know about an accident suffered by a senior Shin Bet officer,” said the head of the Operations team and the whole unit now turned to the business of making the final preparations for surveilling Jamil.
On the following evening, the first team already set off, carrying sophisticated camera equipment and various items of clothing to disguise themselves during surveillance. All that was left for the team to do was wait for Yasmina’s signal that she had finished work and returned to her house.
The barking of the dog made Yasmina realize that Jamil was coming. She had learned to recognize this particular bark, the dog disliked Jamil and bared its teeth at him each time the man arrived to her house.
“They say that Abu Ghazall is injured,” Jamil told her with excitement and pointed at the red headline on the Al Fajr’s front page.
“Who?”
“Abu Ghazall, from the Mukhabarat, They say that a truck driver deliberately hit him.”
“And what is his condition?”
“The truck driver’s?” he asked.
“No, Abu… whatever his name is.”
“Oh, Abu Ghazall. He is badly injured and has been taken to a hospital in Israel.”
“May Allah deprive him of good health,” Yasmina added.
“I would smash that snake’s head with my own two hands, but the main thing is that he won’t be bothering us anytime soon. After that, Allahu akbar, I will no longer be here.”
Yasmina could not fall asleep. Impatiently, she waited for morning to come so she could call Amos’ office and ask after his wellbeing. She hoped that once more, her instincts were not misleading her. She snuck to the public phone and dialed the agent’s phone number with her heart pounding in his her chest.
“Good morning. How are you?” the secretary answered her call, greeting her in basic Arabic.
“Abu Ghazall…?” Yasmina hesitated whether or not she should complete the question.
“Yes, I’ll transfer you to him.”
“Alhamdulillah Ala Salama,” she teased him with a blessing normally reserved for sick individuals returning home.
“May Allah bless you as well,” he laughed in reply with his own greeting.
“I was worried,” she said embarrassedly.
“Everything is fine. How are you?”
“Alhamdulillah,” she replied, “praise be to the Lord.”
Once she had settled down, Yasmina dialed a random number to prevent any redialing attempts. Only then did she return to her various occupations and waited vigilantly. A great excitement overwhelmed her and she could find no rest. So she cleaned and tidied the house until fatigue had finally overcome her and she fell asleep.
At 4:30 am, Jamil left her house and headed to the wadi. She turned on the radio and broadcast the signal marking his exit.
The surveillance team got ready and identified Jamil as he descended the wadi and began to climb toward the Judea road, “He’s coming up toward you,” they reported to the vehicle waiting on the road.
Yasmina waited for long after Jamil had left before finally taking the missive she had brought him yesterday, it was sealed with glue this time.
“I was afraid to open it,” she told Amos.”
“You did well, your safety comes before any other consideration. This man is highly dangerous. He has nothing to lose. Remember how quick he was to kill A’mer.”
“True, that poor child. He died like a dog and didn’t even know why.”
“He who lies down with dogs, rises with fleas,” Abu Ghazall said bitterly and read the missive Yasmina had brought with her:
“Abu Ghazall is in the hospital, may Allah bring a curse upon his head so he will not survive.
No one can now hinder our operation and we must quickly schedule it before that dog recovers.
May Allah grant us strength and not forsake those who follow in his ways.”
32
Adnan arrived at the Al Sha’b Café, placed the Al Quds newspaper on the table, then put the packet of cigarettes on top of it, same as he had done every day for the past
two weeks. He looked at the passersby, lost in thought. A man going to his death shouldn’t be allowed to ponder on his future for so long. Many questions had bothered his mind lately and shook the foundations of his belief in the righteousness of the way he had chosen to follow. He did not feel any sorrow for himself, though, only for his mother and his little brothers.
Am I allowed to perform an act that would ruin my mother’s life? With my own two hands, I will send her back down the same path of agony she had been trying to escape from since my brother’s demise. Her life had shriveled since that day. True, we had erected a mourner’s tent after his passing, and my mother ululated with joy and distributed sweets to the neighborhood children. But could she have acted any other way?
The villagers had claimed her private mourning and turned it into a national one. Unwillingly, my mother had become a symbol. When the mourning period had ended, the visitors stopped coming and she remained alone with her grief. Only then did she allow herself to curse ‘those who had ruined her life,’ as she referred to the Zionists, but she cursed our own freedom fighters as well. She cursed everyone, and their mothers too, even the struggle for national independence in whose name she had sacrificed her son.
I cannot bear these thoughts any longer, nor the torments my soul has to undergo. Adnan looked at the café patrons and could not recognize any signs of same fiery rage burning in their souls. We all suffer from the same enemy and there is nothing that disturbs their tranquility? Their whole world is carelessly billowing with the smoke rings rising from their hookahs. And me? My soul is in constant turmoil, my nights refuse to end and doubts torment my soul. The agony stings into my heart like the tip of a red-hot poker.
Go Adnan! Return to Venezuela! An inner voice urged him. Your family has already paid its quota of blood, another voice called him, until he shut his ears, refused to listen to the words, which seemed to him like silent water slowly corroding the stone walls he had built to contain his emotions.
