Confessions of a Librarian

by Barbara Foster

  Hadj and I were regulars at the Nepal, just inside the Damascus Gate, a hangout for “heads” from all over Europe and the States. On a board the owner had posted a United Nations list of messages, even one written in Swahili. Regularly, off-duty Israeli soldiers, casually swinging their Uzi’s, strolled by.

  “Got any?” a young, red-haired soldier in khakis addressed Hadj in accented English.

  “Sure. How much you need?” Hadj and the soldier disappeared into an alley.

  Robed forms scurried back and forth carrying on their mysterious business. Clip clop, my imagination, mounted on a camel, followed them. So did my eyes. Distracted by the passing parade in one of the holiest cities in the world, I could not concentrate on the weighty tomes on Jewish themes languishing in my backpack. The Philadelphia librarian cursed her bohemian sister for smoking hash with Hadj and his disreputable cronies.

  Watching a bunch of Japanese tourists, who were carrying souvenir postcards while trying to find their way through the maze of narrow streets, I realized I’d lost my own sense of direction. My research on Israeli libraries completed, soon I would be back in the States. For years, I had wanted to pay homage to my Jewish ancestors in their ancient homeland. How to overcome the smoky lethargy gluing me to a chair at the Nepal day after day?

  Stone walls intensified the February chill. Sweet mint tea worthy of becoming an addiction mitigated my discomfort. I wondered which of Hadj’s oddball friends would show up that night. Since he was on a first name basis with every foreigner in the Old City, plus most natives, either the mayor or a street cleaner would not surprise me.

  “Israeli cheapskates,” muttered Hadj sitting down again. He scratched his pockmarked cheek furiously. His olive skin turned a purplish color. “Don’t let a poor working stiff make a shekel. Bargain worse than Arabs.”

  “You’re from Lebanon, you said?” I ventured. Hadj avoided speaking about his background or even telling me his address in Jerusalem. Every day by early afternoon he showed up at the Nepal to occupy the same table that he called his office.

  “Sure, I should have gone to university, been a doctor. But I can’t stay in one place.” Hadj waved to a rival hash dealer wearing a patch over his eye, seated at a corner table.

  “Maybe you smoke up your profits like a rotten businessman,” I hazarded in a Jewish mother tone. By now we were pals, kidding each other about sensitive subjects. Still, our talk always remained on a superficial level that suited Jerusalem’s lazy cafe life.

  “Let’s stroll over to the Jaffa Gate. There’s a Bedouin dress near there I want to try on. The stall’s owner promised me a bargain.”

  “Don’t buy from Mahmoud! He robs mothers of their gold teeth,” spat Hadj, his left eye twitching. Small and dark with a wiry moustache, his left eye was way higher than his right one. If angered, a nervous tic erupted making his entire face tremble along with his body. “Your best buys are at the Friday flea market here, near the Damascus Gate. Trust me, I’ll get you a dozen Bedouin dresses with a some sexy Bedouins thrown in for free.” Hadj giggled, a sound like a bleating lamb.

  “Let’s move,” suggested Hadj. He gestured to the cafe owner for the bill, and paid as usual. No matter how I insisted, he would not let me spend any money. We joined hands and strolled along. The dress was merely an excuse to amble through the souk. I could have wandered there without ever sleeping. In a previous incarnation, my face tattooed, draped head to toe in a black chadar, I sold magic charms by the kilo. Ancient alleys smelling of herbs and spices enticed me to wander down them and stay lost forever.

  “I say, you blokes, wait for David!” A rosy-cheeked, giant British fellow suddenly appeared, and Hadj nearly jumped in the air from excitement.

  “Just missed you at the Nepal. I left a note. What about our date? Bloody inconsiderate after last night, I should say.” Trying to forget, I closed my eyes and wished he would turn into a puff of smoke.

  “Sorry, David, I forgot.” Blushing, I hoped busybody Hadj would not suspect my midnight tryst. David’s robust ardor had swept me into bed after only a brief conversation. Not a lover but a cricket player, he had handled my body as though competing on a field for points.

  “I’m free,” piped in Hadj, his long eyelashes fluttering like a courtesan’s fan. Straightening his collar, he preened and waved his fingers, their tips yellowish from chain-smoking.

  “We’ve matters to discuss, alone!” David’s sharp tone only inflamed Hadj’s interest. Wearing a kefiyah in the style of Lawrence of Arabia wrapped round his blonde curls, the native headdress made David resemble a leading man in a technicolor film. All he needed was a band of Bedouin tribesmen to lead into the desert

  David tugged my arm, pulling me toward a huge eucalyptus tree bulging into an alley. Resisting, I shoved him away.

  “We’re busy now, going shopping,” I stuttered, looking at Hadj for reinforcement. Hadj, mesmerized by the handsome six-footer whose haughty carriage prompted Arabs to scuttle out of his way, ignored me. In true Empire fashion, David acted as though he ruled the country rather than scraped by on a monthly “competence” from his father, a clothing chain-store owner in Brighton.

  “Let’s go to Renaldo’s, you promised,” urged David. “ I want to show you dancing girls, boys too. The best show in Jerusalem. Join me for a great night, one you’ll always remember back in New York.” David spoke in an imploring tone.

  The mention of dancing boys made Hadj clap his hands. Sidling next to David, a veritable Goliath, Hadj coyly flexed his buns and patted down his thinning hair.

  “Sure, I’ll go! If she’s tired, take me! Great spot, know it well. Got friends there I smoked hash with. Look, I’m wearing genuine Levis, the real deal. Got ’em from a tourist last week. Two more pair at home.”

  “You’d think those jeans were diamonds the way you’re flashing them,” sneered David. “They go for a couple pounds in Brighton.” Impatient, staring at me hopefully, he fiddled with a huge gold star he wore around his neck. Not Jewish, it was a gift from an Israeli girlfriend.

  Watching Hadj flirt like a Parisian coquette, I wondered what had happened to the trader accustomed to wringing the last shekel from customers. I felt embarrassed for him and, used to his undivided attention, a bit irritated.

  “Some hash?” Hadj wheedled and nearly crawled on all fours. “Got the best Moroccan red. Some brownies? Sweet to the taste ’cause I mixed in rosewater. A ninety volt wire. Come to my place some night for a smoke—free!”

  “Since when do you give away your stock in trade?” I quipped. “ Next you’ll offer him your sister!” If I had shouted “Down with Allah!” Hadj would have paid no mind.

  Pleading for any attention from the Anglo-Saxon god of his dreams, Hadj beamed up at him. Lighting a cigarette, David blew smoke in Hadj’s face. Opening his mouth to show his brown tongue, Hadj, breathing heavily, sucked in the vapors.

  The erotic undercurrent between these two made me want a real lover of my own. Wistfully, I had watched others hold hands and kiss on narrow streets and in doorways. Jerusalem exuded an aura of romance that imbued every encounter with possibilities unlikely in more mundane settings. Would a stranger materialize out of this legendary city of song and story to teach me another lesson in love?

  “Okay, David. Let’s all go to the belly dancing club later.” Exhausted, nevertheless, I agreed out of curiosity and to appease the panting Hadj, who would never forgive me if I refused.

  “I’ll meet you at the Nepal in an hour. You too, what’s your name, if she insists on an escort.” At the word “escort” David winked at Hadj, mocking his homosexuality.

  At ten o’clock, reunited at the Nepal, we were the only patrons. An annoyed Mustapha made no attempt to take our order. Putting glasses away, he was ready to close up.

  “You’re shivering. Want my jacket?” inquired David. He draped it over my shoulders, his fingertips digging into my back as though to brand me. His behavior reminded of last night at the Petra Hotel, popular with
budget-minded travelers. Awkward, we couldn’t seem to find a comfortable position on his lumpy bed. His sincere attempts at passionate embraces were versions of gymnastic exercises that gave me no pleasure.

  Next morning, I peered out the window at the silver-domed Al-Aqusa mosque. Earlier I had visited this holy spot where religious Muslims believe that Muhammad made a miraculous night journey from Mecca to Jerusalem on a flying horse. At the shrine, I observed the faithful about to say their prayers. What would they have thought, I wondered ironically, of a Jew and Gentile having a one night stand within sight of Islam’s second oldest mosque.

  “C’mon. A toke?” asked Hadj, offering his most valued gift. Opening a purse dangling from his waist, he rolled, then lit up two hash cigarettes. “This’ll make ya’ warm as French toast from Freddy’s. Mmm, delish! Let’s all go Sunday for brunch, Okay? My treat.” Hadj looked expectantly at David, who remained silent as the dark streets.

  “Not tonight, Hadj,” I replied glancing at David, not bothering to hide my irritation. “I’m in Jerusalem for research, not to become a hash head. Never smoked in New York, not even regular cigarettes.” My shrill voice drifted down wintry streets. Stray lamps on crooked poles cast shadows that played along ancient walls and set an ominous mood.

  Neither Hadj nor David, both allergic to soul-searching, responded to my protest. Rhythmically, they inhaled then exhaled fumes that made me feel high in the open air. I wondered if Hadj was steamed because I had refused to smoke his most precious commodity. To refuse an Arab’s gift was a grave insult. Stumbling from poor night vision, I also wondered how much Hadj resented the outcome of The Six Day War. On some streets walls were pock-marked with bullet holes, reminders of skirmishes between Arabs and Jews. Although we had avoided political discussions, did Hadj secretly resent me for being Jewish, American, or rich enough to spend two idle months?

  “Eyes on the road, loverbirds,” commanded Hadj. “Don’t want no foreigners having no accident so I get nailed. Even us locals get lost in skinny, twisty alleys. Last week a Syrian trader stole an American’s money. Slit her throat, cut up the body then dumped it into an urn. Sold it in the ceramic bazaar. Housewife from Bethlehem bought that real, real cheap.” Hadj tossed this off as though discussing the price of falafels.

  “Can walk this street in my sleep. Customers in all in these houses. Guy up there buys by the kilo.” Hadj pointed to a curtained window so small a bird could hardly fit through.

  “I know jolly well exactly where we are,” growled David peeved at being bossed. “I’ve been at my digs more than one year now and know the Old City better than beaches in Brighton.”

  “Single file here,” ordered Hadj. “Sidewalks run out straight ahead. People got a problem if their feets too big. Good for camels or donkeys. Hold my hand David.”

  Weaving among dark arcades and covered stalls in a small square, we passed through a market. Since Hadj was showing off for David’s benefit, I stayed as silent as the uneven paving stones that threatened to entrap the heels of my shoes. As the men played power games, I tried to stay upright. Winding up and down uneven inclines in the dark, I quietly cursed my companions. Cold, stomach rumbling from hunger, I wanted to turn back but hadn’t the nerve to say anything. My ears were cocked for sounds of Israeli patrol jeeps that would have bolstered my confidence.

  “Bingo, we’re here. Come along,” commanded David, leading me through a chipped, wooden door. We headed down a corridor that reeked of rotting garbage. An uneven string of precariously balanced electric light bulbs, which looked about to tumble down, led to another door. A faded sign above the door read: “Renaldo’s.” The unmistakable whine of Arabic music drifted out.

  Stepping inside Renaldo’s, I found an oasis worth a trek of forty years in the desert. Luscious fruits spread on trays and golden goblets brimming with bubbly drinks soothed my eyes that were strained from peering into the darkness. Padded booths along the walls were shaped like Arab tents. Lamps in antique style, coated with a patina that made them resemble archaeological finds, provided soft lighting. A sign written in English, French, Hebrew, and Arabic invited customers to leave their shoes at the door. Rose-colored plush rugs were decorated with scenes of harems and dancing girls.

  “Cautiously, David guided me to a small table in a corner, far from the musicians who were arranged in a circle on the stage’s periphery. Their wailing music induced visions of camel caravans stretching to infinity. The cling clang of finger cymbals and insistent, throbbing drums made my crotch wet and prickly, while a thousand tongues vibrated inside. My thighs undulated to the repetitive rhythmic patterns.

  “Take a booth. More class,” insisted Hadj. He grabbed my arm. “Important people like us don’t want to be seen at tables.” I followed Hadj toward a front booth. All were full except one second from the front. Inside were three empty seats with an indistinct figure in the fourth. Customers, lounging on large soft cushions, watched the show through oval peepholes cut in the tent material that covered the booths.

  “Mind us joining?” Hadj pushed in and plopped down next to a man who nodded in agreement. His head was covered by a white and black checked kefiyah that partially obscured his face, and he wore a long white robe. Bowls of olives and cups of steaming mint tea were brought by a young waiter dressed in black down to his bulging pantaloons.

  “Please, be my guest,” invited our booth mate, who passed small plates of Middle Eastern snacks as they arrived. The modulated cadences of his speech indicated a well-educated person. When I reached for an olive, David grabbed my wrist.

  “We’re moving. It’s too skimpy here; damn, my legs are all cramped up.” David started to furiously massage his long legs stuffed into the narrow space between the table and cushioned seats. “Mind your pocketbook,” cautioned David as he glanced suspiciously at the man smoking a pipe who took no notice. “We’re moving now! Over to that empty table with the purple flowers.” David gestured toward a small table near the center. It was being vacated by an old, bearded man leaning on a cane along with a young fellow dressed western style.

  “There’s no room for all of us. You and Hadj grab it. This tent reminds me of a womb and makes me feel safe.” The stranger was scooping up a large plate of hummus with pita bread. Our eyes collided. I could not pull mine away from his. Meanwhile, David, bothered by the smell of garlic, held his nose, slammed his hand on the table, and glared at Hadj, who snuggled closer to him.

  A gong announced the first belly dancer. Like a snake, she wriggled round the room thrusting her boobs and crotch at the salivating Arab men. She avoided the dozen or so European women mixed into the crowd. The dancer seemed entirely lacking in bone structure: every part of her bent and jiggled as though she never stood upright. Down on her knees, bending backwards, she worked her way to the floor then shimmied up again. A fat man danced over to her, tucked money into her bra, then tossed the rest at her feet.

  Cheers and louder hisses, the ultimate sign of Arab appreciation, erupted. Ankle and wrist bracelets jingling, the curvaceous brunette dancer, whose earrings dangled nearly to her shoulders, served the piece de resistance: while she gyrated faster and faster a wand of fire was placed on her head. It sat on top of a cap that allowed the dancer to balance it. She pranced around like a flaming birthday cake. Smokers put down their pipes and cigarettes, and the band picked up speed. Everyone sat in stunned silence until the dancer, finally whirling around, removed the wand from her head, then blew out the fire. Pausing at each booth and table to display her assets, she made a final triumphal wiggle round the club.

  Ignoring the other mesmerized males, she placed her sequined veil round David’s neck. Traditionally this obliged him to dance with her. Violently, David pulled off his shoes, shook out his legs and scrambled past me. He almost broke my leg, escaping from the booth in hot pursuit of the brunette dazzler.

  “Where ya’ goin’?” yelled Hadj, grabbing David’s arm. They tussled while Hadj hung on to David like a life raft “At my place
got the best kif made on my stove. Hashish candy too, or majoun mixed with caraway seeds and ground nutmeg. Please, pretty please, come over,” he squealed.

  After David’s hasty departure, my companion handed a plate of grape leaves in my direction. His long, slender hands had shiny, manicured nails.

  “Miss, or should I say Madame, what is your pleasure here?”

  “And you?” I shot back provocatively.

  “My name is Fouad. Renaldo’s has the best belly dancers, as refined as any found in Egyptian clubs. The next dancer comes from Istanbul. She is married to that jealous sailor—there he is—who carries a knife.” Fouad’s soft voice rose and fell like music in a seductive way that blurred the meaning of his words. As though a string were pulling us together, we moved closer, legs touching. I resisted an urge to sit on his lap.

  “Are you in Jerusalem for long? You are Jewish, are you not?” he asked.

  “Yes, but what’s the difference? I’m not religious just curious about my roots.” He glanced at my hair. “I mean my Jewish origins.”

  “Then why don’t you mingle with Israeli men?” Fouad looked disparagingly at Hadj and drew me closer so Hadj could not overhear.

  “Israeli men start out with the same line, that they want to get to know you ‘slowly, slowly.’” I smirked. “Next they push you into an alley and muss your hair in between slobbery kisses.”

  “Don’t be hasty, tarring all Israelis with the same brush. I have a friend Menachim who works as head chef at the King David Hotel. There is not a crude bone in his body. He is a philosopher. Let me introduce you.” What tolerance! I couldn’t wait to learn more about this agreeable gentleman who would have fit in a Paris cafe, or any sophisticated European capitol.

  “She don’t need no extra introductions. I know everybody worth knowing and see she meets plenty of the right people, see!” Hadj, always protective, did not appreciate an interloper taking over his role in my life.