“I’ll go to France to speak to Kressmann. If he agrees to co-sponsor the plan, we can activate our newspaper and social media contacts to take it to the world. And Kressmann has the ear of the French Socialist Party.”
The two other men sit silently. Both know Kressmann. The man is both saint and sinner. He worked as a doctor in the Shia slums of Beirut. His sympathies for the Palestinian refugees were well known back then. Admittedly, as a Jew, he has credibility with the powerful French Jewish community. But they also know Kressmann to be an unrepentant narcissist with unbridled political ambitions.
Taragon can see that his friends are uncomfortable about making Kressmann such a key player in promoting the peace plan. But there’s no one else he could count on with the same level of political influence. The three men agree to call it a day. They’ll meet again tomorrow. Taragon needs the time to make arrangements.
The days pass quickly. Each brings new answers to the thornier of issues. Both ‘Akkawi and Bronstein demonstrate such flexibility and empathy for each other’s side that Taragon soon leaves the negotiations to them.
On the fourth day, ‘Akkawi and Bronstein are grinning when Taragon approaches them in the village café.
“What are you smiling about?”
“We think that we’ve done it.”
“A deal that will hold?”
“Yes!”
“Good. And just in time. We can’t stay here undetected for much longer. I’ve got what we need next.”
Taragon fishes out of his pocket two new passports. The forger in Athens had done a great job, and his Spanish contacts had come through.
“Thanks to a friend in Madrid, Abdullah you’re now a resident of Spain. Your new Jordanian passport is complete with a five-year visa.”
“Fantastic!”
“There’s more,” Taragon says. “A minister in the Catalan regional government will lend you an apartment in Barcelona.”
“And me?” Bronstein asks.
“Here you go.”
“What, a Russian passport? I thought I was going to Canada!”
“Don’t worry. You are. Here are your Canadian papers. You’re now a recent immigrant to Canada. You still speak Russian, don’t you?”
“Barely, I haven’t spoken the language since the death of my parents. And even when they were alive, we mostly spoke Hebrew.”
“Don’t worry. Just speak English to everyone and throw in the odd Russian word. And look tough. My friend in Montreal tells me that the Russians there have a reputation for being tough guys. Apparently, the Russian mafia is thriving in the city.”
“And who is this friend?”
“Don’t worry. You’ll like her.”
“We also have something for you, Marc.”
Bronstein hands him an envelope.
Marc opens it. There’s a printout of ten pages. The document, written in English, contains a few grammatical errors, but that doesn’t matter. When he finishes reading, he looks up at his friends.
“This is amazing!”
“Glad you like it,” Bronstein says. “Can you fix up the language so we can sign it today?”
“Of course, let me do that right away. Have you got it on a USB stick?”
“Here,” ‘Akkawi says.
Marc pulls out his laptop. He begins to re-read the text, tightening clauses, removing any potential ambiguity and restructuring the document so that its preamble captures the historical significance of the undertaking and spells out the basic principles underlying the agreement. Twenty minutes later, he passes his laptop over to ‘Akkawi and Bronstein.
‘Akkawi smiles as he reads the new text. “Marc, I once mocked you, saying that you thought your newspaper articles could end the killing in Lebanon. When I read this, I realize how wrong I was. My friend, you have the gift to move mountains with your words.”
“Yes,” Bronstein says. “Yours is truly the quill of the dove. May I read it aloud for all of us?”
“Yes!”
Bronstein adjusts his glasses and clears his throat, and then in his deep baritone voice, he reads:
THE PACT OF ARKASSA
We choose humanity over hatred. Justice over greed. We recognize that peace never comes without compromise. The peoples of historical Palestine: Muslims, Christians, Druze and Jews have all suffered injustices. It is time to dam the river of enmity flowing from past wrongs and to embrace the future with the still water of peace.
We hereby agree:
Two states shall share the territory of our common historical homeland. We will build for present and future generations the State of Israel within its 1967 borders and the State of Palestine in the West Bank and Gaza.
The Basic Law of the State of Israel and the Constitution of the State of Palestine shall be amended to include a binding recognition of each state’s right to exist and to forbid either country from entering into a military alliance against the other state.
Jerusalem shall be the spiritual capital of both States, but the political capital of neither.
The political capital of the State of Israel shall be Tel Aviv.
The political capital of the State of Palestine shall be Ramallah.
Jerusalem will be a demilitarized city. Its municipal police force will be composed equally of Jewish and Arab citizens, who will be unarmed and serve side by side. Any resident of Jerusalem who carries a weapon of any kind will be permanently expelled from the city.
A small armed emergency police force under the aegis of the United Nations shall be based in Jerusalem to protect the population from armed criminality and acts of terrorism.
Jerusalem within Israel’s pre-1967 borders shall be governed by a municipal council elected by residents who are citizens of Israel.
Jerusalem outside of Israel’s pre-1967 borders will be governed by a municipal council elected by residents who are citizens of Palestine.
All citizens of Israel and Palestine shall have the right to reside and own property anywhere in Jerusalem, provided they respect the law and keep the peace.
The two municipal administrations of the city shall appoint five members each to a Jerusalem Senate. The governments of the States of Israel and Palestine shall each appoint one member to this Senate, and the Secretary-General of the United Nations shall appoint a distinguished international person of neither Israeli or Palestinian nationality to chair the Jerusalem Senate.
The Jerusalem Senate shall be responsible for all matters related to the preservation of religious sites, the arbitration of disputes between the two municipal administrations of Jerusalem and shall appoint the Chief and Deputy Chief of the Jerusalem Police Force.
Non-Israeli and non-Palestinian citizens wishing to live in Jerusalem must obtain resident permits from the Jerusalem Senate.
Palestinian refugees living outside of Palestine shall have the options of returning to the Palestinian state; returning to Israel provided that they agree to accept Israeli citizenship; or accepting compensation for properties lost in the 1947 partition of Palestine.
Israeli citizens living in the Palestinian state at the time of the signature of this agreement will have the choice of remaining in this state provided that they agree to abide by Palestinian law and give up all arms that they possess. They will also have the right to obtain Palestinian citizenship if they renounce Israeli citizenship.
Still unsettled land in the State of Palestine expropriated by the State of Israel after 1967 shall be returned to the government of the State of Palestine.
The State of Israel shall compensate at fair-market value the Palestinian owners of land expropriated for Jewish settlements in the new State of Palestine. A UN commission will determine the value of the land.
The document continues with various dispute mechanism clauses and timetables. Bronstein, ‘Akkawi and Taragon all realize how daunting the selling of this agreement will be. Still, they’re confident that they can get their message to the people.
As they rise and shake hands, t
hey fail to notice a young tourist with a backpack watching them from across the street. The woman suddenly walks into an alley and pulls out her cell phone. With a few quick keystrokes she sends a message to her boyfriend in the settlement of Ma’ale Adumim: I just saw the journalist Jonathan Bronstein here in Karpathos. There was an Arab with him and that French journalist, the one who supports the Palestinians.
Minutes later in Ramat HaSharon, Ari Epstein sees on his computer a new message: Target found in Greece, beginning tracking.
Chapter
15
France – November 1975
THE BOEING 707 LANDS SMOOTHLY at Charles de Gaulle airport. Many of the Lebanese clap, much to the annoyance of the French passengers who disdain yet another Levantine extroversion. But Marc doesn’t even notice—his mind is absorbed with thoughts of his father lying in a coma. Rennes is still a day’s journey, and time is slipping by.
He recalls the last time he saw his father. It ended on bad terms. Diego Taragon, never an easy man, had become harder in his old age. His condemnation of everything right of the Socialist Party had escalated to the vitriolic, and compromise never natural to him was out of the question.
When Marc brought his Vietnamese girlfriend, Leyna, to Rennes, his father immediately queried her about her views on the South Vietnamese government. Leyna calmly explained that, although the government was far from perfect, the population was still firmly behind it as the only way to protect the country from falling to Communism. The older Taragon grumbled that the South Vietnamese president was an American stooge and all his supporters collaborators. This was too much for Leyna. Despite the profuse apologies of Marc’s mother, Jacinta, and Marc’s own entreaties for her to stay, Leyna took the first train back to Paris. Marc was furious with his father, but he spent two more days with his family at his mother’s insistence. Each day, she tried to repair the damage, and convince her husband to write a letter of apology to Leyna. But Diego Taragon refused. When Jacinta pressed him harder, he said laconically: “Just remember My Lai.”
Marc returned to Paris, angry that his father had made politics a wedge between him and his first love. He understood how American support for Franco in the fifties and sixties had outraged his father. So for Diego, the war in Vietnam was just another example of Washington propping up a dictatorship. Marc, himself, had demonstrated against the US atrocities in Vietnam. But Leyna was not part of any of that, and he continued to see her. The visit to Rennes had left its mark though, and a froid between them lingered on after he went to Lebanon. Still, they continued to write each other weekly. When North Vietnam launched their spring offensive against the South, Leyna became obsessed with getting her parents out of Saigon. In her letters, she voiced increasing bitterness that the French Left was undermining public support in Europe for the South Vietnamese government. He knew she expected him to write back agreeing with her, but he felt she was wrong and avoided the issue in his letters. By mid-April, her letters had stopped. By May, his letters were being returned by the post office.
When Marc clears customs, he’s asked to accompany an immigration official to a small room. Inside a young man with dark glasses, who introduces himself only as Leblanc, sits beside a French border guard. The guard asks the questions while Leblanc jots down notes in a black book. Has Marc met Palestinians in Lebanon? Has he been to any of the refugee camps? Leblanc hands the border guard an envelope of photos, which the guard dutifully spreads across the table. Young men in keffiyahs, older men in ill-fitting business suits, and there in black and white is Hoda’s cousin, Abdullah ‘Akkawi. Marc has learnt from his father not to trust the French police. They’re all fascists was his father’s favourite mantra. Marc may have flinched when he saw ‘Akkawi’s photo, but he says nothing. Leblanc is silent too, but Marc can feel the man’s eyes behind the dark glasses burn through him.
When the interrogation is finally over, Leblanc stands, utters a perfunctory au revoir and leaves. Marc rises, but the border guard motions him to sit. An official walks in with Marc’s suitcase. It has obviously been opened, but Marc sees no point in protesting. He’s happy to escape further questions and the relentless gaze of “Monsieur Leblanc.” A few more banal questions, a warning about associating with terrorists and the interview is over.
As Marc makes his way to the bus stop outside the terminal, he ponders why he was singled out. Could the military attaché have tipped off French intelligence? He remembers his father’s advice when it came to politics—listen to everyone, say little and trust no one.
The last of the vineyards disappear into the rose-coloured roofs of the Toulouse suburbs. He’s made this journey many times. In a few minutes, he’ll arrive at the Gare centrale and transfer to the local train to Rennes. The hours on the train from Paris have given him the chance to reflect on what he really wants. He knows that he can’t simply go back to Lebanon to be just a student. He needs to establish himself so he can earn a living, be with Hoda and then see where their paths will take them. Pondering over his future displaces worries about his father. Somehow, he’s come to believe that his father will recover, and life will go on as if he never had a stroke. As the train pulls in, he’s filled with hope for all those he loves.
Chapter
16
Toulouse, France – November 1975
THE TRAIN TO RENNES-LES-BAINS is scheduled to leave in three hours. Marc decides to go into town for a quick supper. When he reaches the main entrance of the station, he sees his uncle Manuel coming toward him.
“Hola, Marc.”
“Hello, Uncle Mani.”
“I’m glad that I caught you. We need to get to Rennes tonight. There’s no time for trains. My car is outside.”
“How is he?”
“It’s serious, very serious. Diego came out of his coma this morning, but he may not last long. He insisted on going home. The doctors agreed. They said that there’s nothing more they can do for him. He’s been asking for you.”
Manuel steers his Citroën DS through the tree-lined boulevards of Toulouse. It is still light out, but soon night will fall and the winding mountain roads will be hazardous. They turn onto the Route d’Agde. Three hours to Rennes. Manuel isn’t very talkative. Marc asks about his mother. Yes, she’s holding up, his uncle assures him. The stroke came as a surprise. His father is known for his strength and endurance. No one had suspected that his heart was weak, but for the last few months, he hadn’t been the same.
“It wasn’t just his heart. Your father has also been depressed. He sees no change for Spain, even with Franco on his deathbed. He told me how the restoration of the monarchy under Juan Carlos would continue fascism for another generation. He also regretted how your last visit to Rennes ended.”
“He spoke about that?”
“Yes, he acknowledged he had made a serious mistake in driving away your girlfriend Leyna. He wants to make amends. He wrote her a letter of apology, but I don’t know if he’s been able to send it.”
Marc sits silently. Despite their frequent quarrels, he has always admired his father. Sure, he doesn’t share his pessimism about Spain’s future nor his absolute condemnation of France’s centrist and right-wing parties. When Marc was sixteen, he crossed the border with a school friend. The Guardia Civil treated him courteously. The young people on the Spanish side of the border were really no different from him. A little more conservative, yes, but the tales of authoritarianism that his father would repeat incessantly seemed out of place. Spain was changing, and for the better. His father was furious with him. Marc challenged him with what he’d seen in Spain, even if it had only been for a day. Had his mother not intervened, he might well have been thrown out of the family home.
Marc is asleep when the Citroën pulls up in front of the small white cottage. Manuel reaches over to shake his shoulder. He immediately springs to life and jumps out of the car. He’d been dreaming of playing chess with his father, learning to fish in the mountain rivers and listening to him relate the history
of Catalonia. He walks up to the door of his parents’ house, but before he can knock, his mother opens it. She kisses him and holds him tight. Her tears and soft sobs seem endless. He wants to enter the house, but she prevents him. Manuel goes inside instead, returning a few minutes later.
“I’m so sorry, Marc. I should have driven faster. It’s too late.”
Marc takes his mother’s arms from around his neck and pulls them down to her sides. He gently steps past her and heads to the bedroom. On the large bed in the centre of the room lies Diego, his face ash-grey, his hands folded on his chest. Marc bends over to kiss his father’s forehead, and for the first time, he realizes his own mortality.
That night, Marc finds in his old bedroom a photo album left out by his mother. He leafs through the many old prints, but few include his father, always so busy at work. Marc stops at one where he is standing by his mother, with a cast on his arm. He had disobeyed his father and climbed the apricot tree in the neighbour’s yard. Out of fear of punishment, he hid the fall from his parents for two days. Finally, his mother noticed that he could no longer tie his shoes, and marched him off to the town’s doctor. It seemed that it was always that way: his fear of his father’s wrath; his mother stepping in to save him.
When his mother touches his shoulder, he realizes he has fallen asleep over the photo album. She pulls back the cover of his bed and lays out some of his old pyjamas. Without saying a word, he kisses his mother good night and puts them on. Sleep comes quickly to him, and his dreams return, but this time, they are not of his father, his childhood and rebellious escapades, but of Lebanon.
Hoda notices the neighbour’s son watch her. The young man has recently returned after working in Riyadh for three years. Her younger brother, Nabil, has warned Hoda that Saudi Arabia has changed him and he’s no longer the polite boy they once knew. Akil is his name. It means intelligent, but Hoda has never found him to be very intelligent. He’s nineteen, two years younger than Hoda, and has just opened a small olive oil shop on the main street. Since his father’s death two months earlier, he’s asserting himself as the head of the family. One of his first acts is to order his older sister, Sadira, to wear a niqab, the face veil so common in Saudi Arabia.
Quill of the Dove Page 8
