Hope Valley

by Haviva Ner-David

  Ruby turned off the radio and glanced over at Tikvah, who was clutching the steering wheel tightly. Her shoulders were raised high and stiff.

  “Well, if you’re worried I’m a terrorist, think again. No weapons,” Ruby said, holding up her hands and opening her knapsack to show what was inside. “Besides, if I were trying to kidnap you, wouldn’t I have offered to drive?”

  Tikvah’s shoulders relaxed. “And if I were worried you were a terrorist, would I have even asked you to come with me today?” But Ruby sensed Tikvah was trying to sound more nonchalant than she truly felt.

  “Good. We’re on the same page.” Ruby had rolled a few cigarettes before heading out this morning. She took one out of her bag.

  “Your doctors let you smoke but they don’t let you drive?” Tikvah asked.

  “Ah, so maybe it is all a disguise,” Ruby said. “Maybe I’m impersonating a cancer patient . . .” Tikvah laughed nervously. “But really. I only smoke when there’s bad news.”

  “Well, you live in the wrong country, then. There’s bad news every day here.”

  “That’s why I turned off the radio. I try not to listen too much. It’s the only way I was able to cut down the habit.”

  “I bite my nails, but that’s not as harmful as smoking.” Tikvah turned the radio back on. “I don’t feel I have the luxury not to listen, although I probably listen a lot less than others on the moshav do.” She was looking at the road ahead.

  Ruby turned the radio off again. “I wouldn’t call where I sit luxurious by any means, either. At least you know which side to root for. Imagine if the us and the them were both you. Can you fathom how it was for my father during the Lebanon War? He had to sit tight on this side of the border while Israel bombed his family in Lebanon. His country was at war with his nation.” She took out her lighter. “He lost two cousins in that war, and his mother lost her house again, too. The Israelis bombed the entire refugee camp where his mother and sisters were living.”

  Wanting to gage Tikvah’s reaction, Ruby turned to her. She was looking ahead at the road as she drove. Seeing Tikvah’s profile only reminded Ruby more of how absurd this “family feud” was between Arabs and Jews. Her nose was as aquiline as the most noble of Arab patriarchs, like Ruby’s father’s had been.

  “You mean, since they left in 1948?” Tikvah asked, her eyes still on the road.

  “I mean, since they were forced to leave their village in 1948,” Ruby corrected Tikvah. “After my uncles and grandfather were killed in the village massacre.”

  “Massacre? You never mentioned that.”

  Did Ruby hear doubt in Tikvah’s tone? Did the woman think Ruby was lying? “I didn’t? Well, I am now. I would tell you to look it up, but I’m not sure you’d find it in your history books.” She did not want to get into the ugly details. Instead, she lit her cigarette and held it up to her mouth between her fingers. “After the massacre and the emptying of the village by the Haganah, my father and his mother and sisters crossed the border into Lebanon, as I told you. After the fighting ended, he tried to convince his mother to sneak back over the border with him to her estranged parents in an-Nasira, but my grandmother was stubborn; she didn’t want to ask them for help. She told my father to go ahead and soon she and his sisters would follow. But he knew in his heart he would never see them again. And he was right. His mother died soon after the First Lebanon War. Of despair. And he had a heart attack ten years later.”

  “I think I told you Alon fought in Lebanon. I was glued to the television news. I feared for his life, too.”

  Ruby frowned. How could Tikvah compare her officer husband to Ruby’s father’s refugee family again? “It wasn’t enough the Jews killed her husband and sons and kicked the rest of them out of their house here on this side of the border,” she continued, ignoring Tikvah’s last comment. “They had to go and destroy the meager life my father’s remaining family had managed to build for themselves over there, too. And my father had to listen to all of that on the news over here and do nothing. But that’s the way it is for us Palestinian Israelis. Either way we lose.” She took a drag from her cigarette and opened the window to exhale. It felt good to let some fresh air into the car, even if the air outside was much hotter than inside the air conditioned car.

  “Even those who don’t consider themselves Palestinians?” Tikvah asked. Ruby assumed Tikvah was thinking of her daughter’s boyfriend, wondering if he was of the same mind.

  “Some of us feel more connected to Israel than others, but we all consider ourselves Palestinians, even if we don’t call ourselves that in front of you. We were here before this place became a Jewish State, when it was Palestine. You can’t say as much for your family, can you?”

  Tikvah looked uneasy. Ruby was aware of how she pushed the woman away with her antagonism. Besides, Tikvah was trying to understand and be sympathetic. Ruby knew the Jews had their version, too, of 1948. She knew there were Jews here before World War II. And she knew the Jews had also suffered.

  “Why did you come with me today, Ruby?” Tikvah asked after a few moments of silence. She took her eyes off of the road for a split second to look at Ruby. “I don’t think you like me very much.”

  “What makes you say that?” Ruby took another drag from her cigarette. Then she turned back to the window and blew out another puff of smoke. “I do like you. You should see how I am with people I don’t like.”

  “Why haven’t you mentioned the house again? I know you resent me because of that. Because of what you think about it.”

  It took all of Ruby’s self-control not to burst out and attack this woman, who made it seem as if she was fabricating her father’s family history. She threw the rest of the cigarette out the window.

  “Khalas,” she said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Literally, it means to end or finish, but its connotation is more like, enough is enough. It’s a good word to know. Comes in handy. Like now. Enough killing myself with cigarettes because of a situation neither of us can control.” Ruby put the radio back on. The news was over, and music was playing again. She sang along. Her coughing fit had passed for the moment. Perhaps those cigarettes were not all bad. “Let it be, let it be. Let it be, let it be. Speaking words of wisdom, let it be,” she sang. Tikvah joined in.

  When they reached Yaffa, Tikvah parked the truck in a lot by the water. Ruby got out, putting on a straw sunhat over her scarf as she descended from the truck. It was going to be a clear day. The air was noticeably more humid here than in Galilee, and she could practically taste the salt on her tongue. It reminded her of when she had lived by the sea in Sydney. Cane yawned and stretched as she emerged from the car. Tikvah got out, too.

  “I packed a picnic lunch,” Tikvah said, taking a wicker basket out of the back seat of the truck.

  They ate their picnic on a table by the promenade near the parking lot so they wouldn’t have to carry the basket with them. Tikvah had filled it with fresh rolls, cheeses, and vegetables. She had even brought along a thermos full of hot peppermint and sage tea, which, she said, she had made from the herbs in her garden. At least she did know something about what to grow here in the region. And the goat cheeses, too, seemed local. The food, Ruby had to admit, was delicious. Cane appreciated what was left over when they had enough to eat.

  After putting the empty basket back in the truck, they walked on the promenade towards the port, where huge hangars had been transformed into art galleries. Ruby noticed Tikvah looking longingly at the sea, as the waves crashed on the shore.

  “Let’s walk along the water,” Ruby suggested. “In the sand. I want to get my feet wet.”

  “Are you sure?” Tikvah asked.

  “This is my best time of the month.” Ruby laughed ironically to herself. “I used to use my hormonal cycle as my monthly measure. Now it’s the chemicals and radiation.”

  They walked on the sand, their shoes in their hands, with Cane trotting along between them. Sea gulls skidded along
the water and dove in for fish. Both Ruby and Tikvah had rolled their jeans up above their knees. Ruby noted that her friend had put on jeans, as opposed to her usual loose-fitting cotton pants, for this day in the city. When an unexpectedly large wave crashed against their legs, wetting their clothes, Ruby told Tikvah she had enough, she was returning to the promenade. They were almost at the port anyway. She grabbed Cane’s leash and took the dog with her. Tikvah followed. When they neared the first hangar, Tikvah headed for the ticket booth. Ruby grabbed her hand.

  “Don’t be silly,” she said. “I have some paintings in Hangar #2. I don’t have to pay. And you’re my guest. Come let’s say hello to the curator.”

  Tikvah stopped walking and looked at Ruby. “I had no idea. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Ruby stopped walking too. She was still holding Tikvah’s hand. “It’s no big deal. I have paintings in lots of shows. I told you I’m a well-known artist. You didn’t believe me?”

  “I never heard of you. How was I to know how much of what you told me was true? And didn’t you say you were not so well-known here in Israel, if I remember correctly?”

  “Yes, that’s true. This exhibit is my debut here, actually.”

  “Well, it’s quite an accomplishment. Not many of us Israeli artists get our paintings into exhibitions on the Jaffa port.”

  “Us?” Tikvah had not mentioned that she was an artist.

  “Yes. I paint. Or at least I used to. I was in a few shows when I lived in Tel Aviv. In less well-known galleries. I even sold some stuff. When we moved north, I displayed my work in the cabins. I sold stuff then, too. So did Alon. We used to do shows of my paintings and Alon’s hand-made furniture each time we opened a new cabin. He’s a sculptor and a carpenter. Each piece of his is a work of art.”

  This new information made Tikvah more interesting, and that retired officer husband of hers, too. He was a sculptor. She was a painter. Tikvah had said he had some kind of war trauma. And Tikvah clearly had some health issues. Ruby felt her attitude towards them softening, in spite of herself. “That sounds lovely. A great way to show your work, with such a steady flow of different people. So, what happened?”

  “It’s been a while since I painted. The inspiration’s gone.”

  “Maybe you need to expand your horizons more. Get out of that Galilean dream world of yours. When was the last time you came to Yaffa? The ocean seems to do you good.” Ruby dropped Tikvah’s hand.

  “I should come here more, but Talya visits us at home most of the time.”

  “I have a good excuse for being mostly home-bound. What’s yours?” Ruby asked, leaving her question floating as she walked ahead, not expecting an answer, even if she suspected Tikvah was not well. She did not feel Tikvah trusted her enough yet to confide in her. But when she did, enough to even invite her back to the house, that was when Ruby would make her move. She did not want to lose sight of why she was spending so much time with the woman. Even if she was growing on her.

  Tikvah followed Ruby. When they reached the hangars, Ruby tied Cane up to a lamppost. “Sorry, girl, no dogs allowed,” she said as she kissed the dog’s moist black nose.

  They stopped by the curator’s office to say hello. Ofer, Ruby remembered his name was. She had met him only once; he knew she was ill, so he had made the trip all the way up to Galilee to see what she was working on. He had looked out of place in the village as he got out of his convertible, with his shaved head and stylishly framed glasses. He had been especially impressed by the two pieces he had chosen for the show and had taken them both with him that day.

  “I am so glad you were able to make it to the show,” he said now, putting out his hand to shake Ruby’s. He looked at Tikvah. “Your friend drove you?”

  Was Tikvah a friend? Ruby was not sure she would have chosen that word. But she nodded. “Yes. Her daughter lives in Yaffa, so it worked out well for both of us.”

  “Nice to meet you again,” Tikvah said. “We met years ago, when I had a few pieces in a small gallery where you were interning. My name is Tikvah Vitali. It was seascapes I had in that exhibit.”

  “Ah, yes.” He grinned. “You didn’t have gray hair back then.”

  So Tikvah had not just been an amateur artist. Still, Israel was such a tiny country, as was its art scene. Everyone knew one another, even if they were not famous outside of the country. Nothing like New York or Paris, where Ruby had achieved her prominence.

  “And you had hair back then.” Tikvah smiled at Ofer. “If I remember correctly.” Then she looked at Ruby apologetically.

  “It’s okay,” Ruby said. “Maybe I should consider going without the scarf. A fashion statement.” She laughed, giving the two of them permission to laugh, too, and lighten the mood.

  “You were married to that sculptor guy, right? The one who built those utilitarian pieces.” Ofer scratched his temple. “He was in the military, wasn’t he? In that dog unit.”

  “Yes, he was. But he retired, early, and we moved north.”

  “Are you still painting? I haven’t seen anything of yours recently.”

  “No. Not in a while. I’ve been busy with other things . . . We run a bed-and-breakfast up there, you see . . .”

  Ruby was even more convinced there was more than the business to make Tikvah lose her desire to paint. Even when Ruby was busy running around the world displaying her art, she always continued painting. It was how she brought her inner world out for others to see.

  “Well, I hope that’s just temporary. You were the real thing.” There was a knock at the office door. “Well, that will be my next meeting. I’m glad you dropped by. Enjoy the exhibit.”

  Tikvah and Ruby left the curator’s office to see the show. It was titled “Border Crossings.” There were paintings by artists from around the world. Ruby’s paintings were the centerpiece, she knew. Even after so many years of being a renowned artist, the idea of seeing her art displayed in public still gave her butterflies. But especially the idea of seeing it displayed here, in Yaffa. In all of the years she had been away, she had never imagined this scenario, had never believed she, a Palestinian woman, would be appreciated by the Israeli art scene. Part of her still could not believe it was true.

  When they walked into the gallery, Tikvah noticed Ruby’s paintings right away. They were impossible to miss. Ruby worked on large canvases, and Ofer had placed them both literally in the center of the gallery.

  “Wow! You’re really good,” Tikvah said.

  Ruby had to admit that they were both powerful pieces. They were two of her more political works that she had done only since coming back home. The first was titled “Freedom,” and it was one of her feminist pieces. It was of her removing her hijab, the scarf becoming transformed into a flying Arabian carpet with airplane wings. The other was also a self-portrait of sorts. Ruby was dressed in an IDF uniform standing at a checkpoint, while another Ruby figure was in jeans, sweater, and boots, standing with a group of Palestinians on the other side of the checkpoint. Ruby had put her own face on all of the people in the painting—the mothers, fathers, children, and babies waiting on line. Even the Israeli soldiers. She had called this one, “Identity Crisis.”

  Ruby watched Tikvah examine the second painting more carefully. She was proud of her work. She deserved the attention she was getting here now that she had come back. She only wished her father had gotten this kind of appreciation in the Israeli cultural world for his poetry.

  “I guess that’s what you were describing to me in the car this morning,” Tikvah said.

  “Yes. But I say it better with paint, don’t I?”

  “I used to feel the same way about myself.” Tikvah stepped back from the enormous canvas. “It’s quite a statement. Loud and clear. Both paintings are. But you’re pretty eloquent too, I must say. I don’t think I’ll ever see the world the same way again since meeting you.”

  Ruby grinned.

  BY SIX, THE sun was dropping lower in the sky, and Tikvah and Ruby made their way
to the restaurant where Talya had said to meet. The boyfriend had recommended it, apparently.

  As Tikvah and Ruby walked, the neighborhood changed from gentrified to slums-on-their-way-to-gentrification. Ruby was familiar with this neighborhood; it was known for its gangs and drug dealers, the result of a poor Arab population with roots in Yaffa since before 1948; but parts were being bought up by real-estate agents, refurbished, and sold at high prices, to mostly Jewish buyers. Yet another form of colonialization as far as she was concerned.

  Ruby was famished—apparently, the steroids she was getting between chemo treatments could cause increased appetite, although she tended to not be able to keep anything down during the treatments, so she hadn’t gained any weight—so she was glad they had decided to go for dinner; but Tikvah hesitated at the door. She had tied Cane’s leash to a lamppost outside the restaurant and was standing back, caressing the white tuft between the dog’s ears.

  “What’s wrong?” Ruby asked.

  “I guess I’m nervous about meeting the guy. What if we have nothing to talk about?” Tikvah twisted her curly hair around her finger at the nape of her neck.

  “He may be Palestinian, but he is just a person. We seem to be finding things to talk about. Don’t we?”

  “That’s different.” She let her hair loose.

  “Why? Because I spent time abroad?”

  “Maybe. We have other things in common.”

  “Because you painted once? Don’t fool yourself. Our lives are as different as can be. As long as we are living in a Jewish country, it will be impossible for us to relate as equals.” Ruby silently berated herself for that last comment. Yet, Tikvah seemed to want to learn more about how she and her people felt. Probably because of her daughter’s new boyfriend. She couldn’t very well ignore Palestinian-Israelis anymore if her daughter had moved in with one. Their blood may even run through the veins of her grandchildren one day. The least Ruby could do was enlighten her about their mentality.