Abruptly, Fouad removed his head scarf and, with eyes blacker than the olives on the table, stared at Hadj. Crouching down, Hadj raised his hands in front of his face as though to ward off the evil eye.
“Mr. Rhamani, Sir! How’d I know you was you! So dark in here. Sure...” he gasped, “introduce her to anybody, anywhere. Gotta’ go now. Important business deal.” If the booth weren’t so tight, Hadj would have genuflected before Fouad whose bemused expression never changed. Bent over in a servile position, Hadj bolted from the booth. Outside, realizing he had forgotten his shoes, he hurried back, put them on and ran out again.
“Who are you?” I asked. “I’ve never seen Hadj move faster... he’s so high all the time.”
“Silly fellow, obviously intimidated by the stores and property my large family owns. Come, I’ll take you home,” he said spoken not as a request, but an established fact!
As he guided me toward a car waiting on a wide street, I savored the pressure of Fouad’s fingers tickling my palm. Meanwhile, I glanced at my tall companion dressed long robes that hid the contours of his body. In the dim light, I tried not to stare at his narrow face, aquiline nose, and what looked like a mole to the right of his lower lip. I guessed him to be fortyish, or slightly older.
Zigzagging through the darkness with a solicitous escort pressed against my side, the same streets that had been menacing now charmed me. If we became lovers, I realized, it would cross a boundary that historically separated Arab and Jew. From the way Fouad, touched me at every opportunity, he did not seem to regard me as an enemy. Accustomed to using my library skills to do extensive research in archives worldwide, I now had the opportunity to conduct a “hands on” study that would produce a more intimate type of knowledge. In the arms of this seductive fellow, perhaps I also would learn something about the workings of Arab society. Had Jerusalem inspired the librarian to become an accidental anthropologist?
TWELVE: JERUSALEM BETWEEN THE WARS, PART TWO
I do not recall a Jewish home without a book on the table. Elie Wiesel
“May I be your tour guide to Jerusalem?” asked Fouad rhetorically the following morning. He wore a blue double-breasted blazer, a black French beret and a red scarf around his neck like a painter from a Left Bank garret. He puffed a Gaulois cigarette, but an aroma of rosewater masked the smell. As we walked along the street, he kissed my hand at every opportunity. Despite his Frenchification, Fouad occasionally twirled ebony-colored worry beads, then quickly thrust them back into his pocket. Embarrassed at following this traditional Muslim custom, he glanced my way to see if I disapproved.
“You look sleepy,” he whispered smiling.
“The muezzin calling the faithful to prayer wakes me too early. Church bells peel at all hours, and donkeys bray mournfully. They are strange sounds to a city girl.” I kept secret the real reasons for my insomnia: fantasies about lifting up the robe Fouad wore last night to find him naked, his erect cock poised to penetrate deep inside me!
“At the Sorbonne, I studied painting and philosophy,” explained Fouad. “In Jerusalem my diploma is of little use. But because my father is very old, I stay on to be with him. Someday I shall return to Paris to linger over coffee and conversations again at my favorite cafe dans le monde, Les des Deux Maggots. When my younger brother, studying finance at Oxford graduates, he will take over our extensive Rhamani enterprises.”
Fouad’s voice was full of yearning as though speaking of a lost beloved. What good fortune! Instead of gallivanting around Paris, Fouad would devote himself exclusively to me!
“There is no intellectual challenge in Jerusalem, mais c’est tres belle. You have much to see and much to taste here.” And being with or waiting for Fouad became my preoccupation. He either wore a suit tailored at London’s Savile Row or a chic sporting outfit that showed off his trim figure to perfection. An array of fancy hats topped off his elegant attire. Devilishly, I wanted to remove them and play in his abundant hair.
Afraid Fouad would fold his tent and slip away. I did not quiz him about his personal life. Enchanted, I floated above Jerusalem’s streets, praying that no surprise would knock me rudely down to earth. Hand in hand, we explored the heart of the Muslim quarter, then climbed up to photograph the Dome of the Rock from various angles. Strolling along, Fouad held my arm and sang Edith Piaf songs in perfect French. A walking guidebook, his historical anecdotes enriched my understanding of the Old City. Several times we passed by Hadj and David stoned on hash. I ignored them and they faded from my mind like ghosts into sunlight.
My hotel room began to resemble the bazaar. Fouad loaded me with presents culled from the string of stores his family owned: silver jewelry, colorful Bedouin dresses plus dried and fresh foods. These presents paled before the thing I most desired: Fouad’s love. Sick of polite pecks on both cheeks, I craved kisses so fiery they would ignite a furnace in his soul. If I saw another tourist site or dined in another fancy restaurant, I’d burst. After seeing him every day, we were not much closer than that night at Renaldo’s. Finally, when Fouad suggested a walk along the ramparts above the Old City, I invented cold in order to stay put.
“Venez avec moi, ma chere,” Fouad pleaded in his adorable French accent obviously acquired with painstaking application. As he spoke, his long eyelashes blinked seductively, inviting me to plant kisses on them. “Strolling the ramparts is magnifique, the best place to drink in Jerusalem’s magnificence. It is less than two miles long and will take no more than one hour. We can see all the sites there with a—how do you say?—birdseye view. Wear your short black skirt and adorable red boots reaching to your knees comme les filles à St. Denis.”
Snuggled in a restaurant booth with Fouad, I moaned. “I’ve a sore throat. What a bitter cold winter, brrrr! Wouldn’t it be better to wear thick pants and wool leggings?” I asked.
“Trust me sweetheart, Fouad knows how you should dress.” Winking at me, he paid the bill, then escorted me to the walker’s entrance at the Jaffa Gate, past craftsmen and tourist hostels.
As we climbed up, rubbing my hands together, I tried not to shiver. Any minute I expected icicles to form on my fingers. It was a clear day, ideal for long distance visibility. But Fouad’s nearness made it impossible to concentrate on the scenery. Tenderly, he fondled my neck, then let his warm hands brush against my breast and backside.
“Tread cautiously. Hold onto me, please,” instructed Fouad. “We can only walk three-quarters of the walls because a section is closed for security reasons.” The pressure of his hand made me so excited I leaned against the wall of the stone ramparts for support. Since we were alone, I boldly raised my lips for a kiss. Instead of complying, he pointed out more tourist sights. “Look there, along the northern section, good views of the New City. There’s the Christian Quarter. See the Church of the Holy Sepulcher and the Lutheran Church of the Redeemer. Look eastward, Jews still today direct their devotions toward the mountain where King Solomon’s temple stood.”
As Fouad turned me around to point out more historic spots I wanted to bite him like a cannibal, to devour him piece by piece. Dizzy from horniness and inhaling icy air, my body felt weightless. Why didn’t he make a move? Before long, I would be on a plane for New York.
“Keep up a steady pace, you’ll stay warmer. We’re almost at the Damascus Gate for the best views. Let’s climb up that buttress over there. Attencion on those narrow steps. I want to show you something especially sacred. See,” he pointed, “the Mount of Olives.”
As I leaned over, in order to be at the correct angle for the best visibility, I felt something against my behind. The rubbery thing wiggled and twitched. Lifting the back of my skirt, Fouad fumbled with my stockings and underpants, jerking them downward, and suddenly jammed his cock into my vagina.
“Now, now, ma cherie,” he whispered. “Fouad will give you his love.”
As he pumped, I placed my hands against the cold rampart wall. Carried away by the depth of his penetration, I joined him in an ecstatic, sw
aying movement. Fouad held onto me so that our bodies remained united. Tired from holding the wall, as a stream of wetness squirted inside me, I relaxed. Then, as his body collapsed against mine, Fouad groaned. I sighed—both exhausted and elated. Gooey liquid coated my thighs.
“Footsteps. People...” I exclaimed. Abruptly, we both straightened up. A few minutes later an Israeli family of parents and children wrapped in huge overcoats and wearing earmuffs trotted in our direction. Their cameras at the ready, they shot every dome and minaret in sight. Had they arrived a few minutes earlier, they would have witnessed a titillating picture appropriate for a porn video.
Steamy and voluptuous describe my last couple of weeks in Jerusalem. Each midday, I meandered to Fouad’s favorite among the several apartments he owned. He offered to send a car but I preferred to walk, my anticipation building with every step. Normally, I took the same route through the Muslim quarter, past shops selling aromatic oils that I applied under my arms and between my breasts before our rendezvous. Sometimes I went out of my way through Shevet Zedek, a poor neighborhood of Jews from Aleppo, Syria, whose dark looks resembled those of their Muslim neighbors. They wore yarmulkes to distinguish themselves, and they sold a twisted yellow fruit with a bitter taste—allegedly an aphrodisiac. Not that I needed any extra stimulation.
Daily Fouad’s robotic servant, Abdul, opened the door, bowed low and led me to the bedroom we would occupy that day. Abdul never spoke, which made me wonder if his tongue had been cut out for a religious offense. We seldom left Fouad’s spacious love nest. Each room had a luxurious bed piled with downy coverlets. I never slept over because Fouad insisted that he needed his space at night.
Different shaped ivory inlaid tables scattered around the boudoirs were laden with spinach pies, slices of sesame seed candies, farina cakes topped with roasted almonds, iced sherbets and an after dinner sherry to cleanse the palate. Books from his extensive library were piled up everywhere.
The most prominent author was Isaac Bashevis Singer who Fouad often quoted from and rhapsodized over. He even had copies of the New Yorker with pages turned down of stories he wanted to discuss. “Singer has taught me about New York. The West Side. Do you live there? His whole life, he writes in Yiddish. Do you know it? Shall we read him together?” I tried to pretend interest but could not muster the enthusiasm to read in a hideaway that played to my fantasy of living a tale from the Arabian Nights. All too soon, I would resume my usual pursuits.
I begged Fouad to turn on phonograph and play Umm Kulthum, the Egyptian singer known as the “Star of the East.” He would point out her improvisations, then sing along to Arabic standards. As Fouad accompanied her heart wrenching wails tears ran from his eyes. Mine too. Rather than foreign, the sounds—although I had heard them before—helped me to understand why I had come to Jerusalem. What contentment! After a long arduous journey, I had landed in a safe harbor where the host came up with new enchantments to surprise me.
While making love, Fouad chose from his large collection of hats: a fez, yarmulke, straw panama, Yankee’s baseball cap, or a Yale college beanie. He said they inspired him to try different styles of lovemaking. The hats hung from wall racks in each room.
After our preliminaries, Fouad stripped me down. His apartment was well-heated. In his ultra-modern bathroom, a flickering candle provided the sole light. We bathed together in a claw foot tub from turn of the century Paris. Afterward, Fouad rubbed me with oils and rosewater lotions that made my skin glisten, my nipples dance.
Tiny love bites like butterfly wings readied me for the joining of our bodies. We had sex in every conceivable position, other than hanging from the chandelier. One night Fouad laid me down on a bed and very gently shaved my Mound of Venus. Then he rubbed the lips of my Mound with three kinds of honey—carob, grape and date. As he noisily slurped the sugary flavors, Fouad assured me that my own juices were sweeter than nectar from the golden blossoms of Jericho.
Fouad intuited exactly where and how to touch me. His velvet fingers caused sensitive spots not normally erotic to come alive. Howling in ecstasy, my shrill voice could have awakened the ancient dead in Jerusalem’s cemeteries. Throughout all our gyrations, as gymnastic as acrobats, even in the throes of a cataclysmic orgasm, Fouad’s facial expression never changed.
“Don’t let this magic interlude end,” I prayed to Moses, Jesus, Allah, and Aphrodite. Meanwhile a nagging voice inside me whispered, why should it? Fouad seemed equally enthralled. The love words he moaned in the heat of passion, and the expensive gifts he heaped upon me, were indications that he would be devastated at my departure. He might even do violence to himself.
Three days before my plane was due to leave, I phoned El-Al about changing my ticket to stay longer. At such short notice, according to the reservation agent, the cost would be substantial. When I alerted Fouad to the expense, he said enthusiastically, “Go ahead! No problem. I’ll take care of everything.” I decided to dip into my vacation allowance to cover my absence from work. More time would allow me to make considerable progress on my library project. I rationalized to condone an addiction to pleasure—intermixed with spiritual pursuits—that had goaded me to travel far and wide. Why else would I have trusted myself with lovers who might have terminated my pilgrimage on a dramatic note.
Hopefully, my husband would understand. These days we gave each other the space we needed; bewitched, it became crucial to extend the bliss that made me one with Jerusalem and a lover whose infinite variety kept me guessing.
Euphoric, indifferent to the cold weather, wearing only a light jacket, I returned to my hotel. Perhaps I would be in Jerusalem to watch spring buds flower. I pictured myself wearing an embroidered caftan, while traveling with my lover to the Golan Heights. And making love outdoors while rolling around in healing mud on the banks of the Dead Sea.
On the afternoon before my original departure date, as usual, I wended my way to Fouad’s apartment and knocked vigorously. Opening up, Fouad’s servant thrust a wrapped package at me. Placing it in my hand, he darted inside and slammed the door. Standing on the stair landing, I stared at Fouad’s door. Where was he? A prisoner inside? In the package, I found a handwritten note scented with rosewater and Stories from my Father’s Court by I.B. Singer—an author on my reading list but far from the top.
With Fouad missing, how could I read in peace? In the note, Fouad apologized for departing for Egypt. A family crisis that only he could handle had arisen. Nor did he know how long the matter would take. When or if we would ever meet again were not mentioned. “Fly home as soon as possible,” he advised!
Certain I had mistaken its contents, I reread the letter over and over like a rat conditioned for an experiment. Furious, I wanted to pound my fists on the door to make Abdul open up. If only I could wring the fellow’s neck to make him tell me the truth. Walking downstairs slowly, with a blistering headache, hardly able to see because my eyelids were burning, it dawned on me that I would never take this route again. I’d been butchered like a leg of mutton, then hung from a hook in the souk.
Back at my hotel, I wandered around the room throwing Fouad’s presents in the wastebasket. The more tears I wiped, the more flowed. I contemplated joining my fellow Jews at the Wailing Wall but lacked the chutzpah to pretend being religious. Desperate, I headed for the Nepal Cafe. For sure, my old pal Hadj would comfort me. I forgot my former route and wound down several unfamiliar alleys. At dusk, chilled to the bone, I stumbled onto the Nepal’s terrace and nearly landed in Hadj’s lap.
“Ho, ho!” snickered Hadj, “If it ain’t my favorite American Jewess. Thought you shaved your head and disappeared into Mea Sharim, or a tank ran you over.” Although Hadj played the innocent, I knew that he had seen me with Fouad. No doubt bulletins about our affair had gotten back to him via Jerusalem’s gossip mill. Ordering mint tea, I pulled out a mirror, then wiped off tear-smudged mascara.
“Say Hadj, how’s your friend Faisal who married the Swedish masseuse?” Following past protocol
, I threw down the gauntlet for one of our dishy gossips.
“Miserable in Sweden, just like Hadj predicted. Dumb to marry a foreigner. Never works! Hey, ain’t you going home soon? Had fun in Jerusalem, right? Ooo-la-la!” Hadj grinned mischievously, then twirled a jaunty yachting cap atop his head. “Look familiar?” When I said nothing, Hadj adjusted his new hat.
“Hat’s from the Rhamani’s main store. Top o’ the line. Maybe I’ll get rich too like the wise-guy who wears hats to bed. Shit, he can afford closets full. Heard he puts them on in the sack to get hot. Here, feel the brim, real leather. Rich! Sure are kinky, right? Liars too.”
Jerking backward, I saw Fouad’s face leering at me under the hat. Was I afflicted with “Jerusalem Syndrome”—psychotic delusions known to strike foreign visitors for no logical reason? Frantically, I gulped boiling tea that scorched my mouth.
“I know a guy what’s got at least two wives: one in France, the other in Haifa. Does that stop him from chasing foreigner nooky like a dog in heat? Women are dummies, right? Spread their legs for any jerk what gives them shiny little trinkets.” Hadj winked at me.
Spilling the tea, I slammed down the cup.
“Anyways, you remember David? I give him my best stuff. He give me this.” Hadj rolled up his shirt sleeve to show off a multi-colored beaded bracelet ubiquitous in the souk. “He’s my tootsie now, a super great fuck. He’s worth the price, right?” Hadj nudged my ribs and giggled showing discolored teeth.
“Davie’s coming by soon. We’re going belly dancin,’ remember? Wouldn’t want to see him, would you? Don’t take any wooden shekels. Now gotta’ do some business before my honey comes.” Hadj beckoned to one of his cronies who brought over a suspicious looking paper bag.
Confessions of a Librarian Page 11
