The Lady from Tel Aviv

by Raba'i al-Madhoun

  ‘I know how to talk politics better than the lot of you.’ And, for the first time, my mother stops talking.

  13

  It is almost midnight when the last well-wishers leave the last bachelor pad and my mother and I are by ourselves again, just as we were in the morning.

  She asks if I want to sleep, and I tell her that I am worn out and need at least twenty hours of sleep. But, even so, I do not feel like going to bed right away.

  I lean toward her until my shoulder is touching hers. Before I say anything, she asks, ‘What’s bothering you, son? I know there’s something. I’m your mother—you can’t hide anything from me, Walid.’

  ‘How long have you known Leila Dahman, Mama?’

  ‘Leila Dahman? What made you think of her right now?’

  ‘I’m just asking.’

  ‘Well, I’ve known her ever since she was a girl. She’s only a couple of years younger than you, and she is a cousin of ours. She’s not a distant relative, you know. Why are you asking about her?’

  ‘It’s just that … did she ever marry?’

  ‘You think a woman like that would be left unmarried? God forbid! A woman as beautiful as the moon not finding a husband? No, no, no—not when any hag in this town can expect to find a ring on her finger! What are you trying to insinuate?’

  My mother turns and looks away. As far away as she can, as if she wants to hide the expression that is on her face. She is just like me. Her face always betrays what she is feeling. She shifts in her seat and places her right hand onto her knee, then rests her chin on her fist. Then she falls into a silence that is, for her, completely unnatural.

  I cannot stand her silence, and I decide to chase after it. ‘OK. So then why didn’t Leila come with her husband? He must be family too, right? Shouldn’t he have come with her to greet me?’

  She shifts again, putting her left hand on her other knee. Now I can see her face. The sadness and gloom are as clear as day. She pauses for a moment, before relinquishing the silence. ‘Leila was married to her cousin Waddah. He was an exceptional young man—as handsome as she is beautiful. He was so upstanding that when people in Khan Yunis went to utter a serious oath, they did it on his name. His death was a complete shock. No one expected anything like it. One morning, he’s going to work, he’s walking out the front door, he’s shutting the door behind him. And then all of a sudden, he’s struck in the head by a bullet. No one ever found out whether it was the Jews or those armed men who run around in the street all day long.’

  She stops and looks at me. Then, her tone even more grave, asks: ‘Now I’ve told you. So you tell me. Why are you so interested in her? I know you are. You can’t hide it. Have you got your eye on Leila now? Does that mean you’re thinking about divorcing Jala?’

  ‘Julie, Mama. My wife’s name is Julie.’

  ‘Jala, Julu—it’s all the same.’

  My legs are sore from sitting so long, so I stretch them out in front of me. Reassuring her, I say, ‘The man who’s divorced his wife is someone else, Mama. It’s a Palestinian man who knew Leila when she was young, back in high school. A young man from the Bashity family. From Majdal-Asqalan, who lives in Germany now. His name is Adel. He contacted me, asking about her. He was going to visit Gaza and he wanted to find out where she was—but didn’t want to go around asking about her himself. He didn’t want people talking about her. Even though it’s an old story, you know how people can be.’

  ‘You think Leila would have fallen in love with someone from Majdal? No way! The girl was always such a prude.’

  ‘Mama, I don’t have to tell you that young people know how to keep a secret.’

  ‘OK, clever clogs. Who are you still in love with then?’

  ‘This isn’t about me. Let’s stick to the subject of Leila.’

  ‘Kids can be stupid—and that was a long time ago. Why is your friend thinking about Leila all of a sudden?’

  ‘He was married to a German woman for ten years. Then the marriage fell apart. He divorced her and that was that. They had one daughter, and she married an American and emigrated to New York with him. Every so often, he’d call home and ask about Leila. When he heard that her husband died, he thought of going back. He wants to spend the rest of his life with a Palestinian woman. And he and Leila were once in love with one another.’

  My mother sits up like she is just waking up from a dream, ‘Listen. Listen. Maybe your friend is thinking about another Leila who also used to live in Jabalia Camp West. That Leila died though.’

  ‘Who died?’

  ‘Sheikh Khalil Dahman’s daughter—Leila Dahman. Her story is sad too. Her husband also died, you know. In a shoot-out between Fatah and Hamas, two years ago. He didn’t have anything to do with either faction, of course. The poor woman joined him in the grave two months later. People said she got stomach cancer from all the lead pollution and all the Israeli airstrikes. Who knows? Cancer’s all over the Gaza Strip. So many people have cancer now. Some of them get treatment at Hadassah Hospital in Jerusalem. Some go to Ramallah. Others don’t get any treatment at all—God help them. And then—’

  ‘Mama, you said her husband got shot during a clash between the factions, and not by a stray bullet, right?’

  ‘That’s right. Though some put the blame on—’

  Before my mother finishes, I interrupt her: ‘I’m going to bed, Mama. Sleep well.’

  So the Leila who came with my cousin is the Leila that Adel’s looking for.

  ‘What did you just say, son?’

  ‘Nothing, Mama. I’ll tell you later. Sleep well.’

  ‘You too, my love. Sleep tight, Walid.’

  I head to my bedroom and let my mother tell the rest of her stories to herself.

  I lie down on the bed, exhausted from another day of meeting people and listening to strange and agonizing stories. These tales raced ahead of me and folded themselves in the sheets. They’re all here, waiting to retell themselves, detail by detail.

  After a while, I get up and turn off the lights, go back to bed and close my eyes. I try to go to sleep, but I cannot. The story of Adel keeps me wide-awake. I’d made the story up for my novel but now key elements have begun to appear as facts in the stories my mother tells. In the shapeless gloom of this room, I watch as Leila steps out of my novel and takes her seat on the edges of reality.

  I begin to regret the day I consigned the story of Leila to fiction. I had been thinking this whole time that it was something made up by a stranger. By a random person who wrote to me at the newspaper to tell me how much he liked my column. And to ask me for help. Now I regret that I jumped to the conclusion I did.

  It was about a year ago when I got the email.

  Dear Mr Dahman,

  First, permit me to introduce myself to you. I am a fellow Palestinian. Exile has consumed half of my life, just as it has yours. When I was young, I knew a beautiful girl from your family. Her name was Leila Dahman, and I am pretty sure she is a relative of yours. We used to meet on the sly, back in Jabalia Camp. When night began to fall, we would talk to one another. During the day it was something else. We never did more than smile at one another from afar when I was walking home from school. I fell in love with Leila, and I have never felt the same way about any other woman in my life. I can honestly say that there’s never been anybody I’ve loved but her. Leila and I vowed to marry one day. But I left to study in Germany, thinking I would return when I graduated. I never did get to come back. As my life slipped away from me, so did Leila. Years ago, I learned that Leila finally married someone. But recently I found out that her husband passed away. I do not know where she is or how to find her. Every effort I’ve made to contact her has failed. And it is to ask for your help that I have come to you. As a well-connected journalist and writer, your ties to your family must be strong. I hoped you might be able to help me to find Leila. If you do manage to find her for me, I will personally go to Gaza to ask for her hand in marriage, even though I am almost sixty years
old. If fate decides against me and she rejects my proposal, I will, of course, respect her wishes.

  The poor man signed off by writing his mobile number and two lines of poetry that harked back to that epitome of that hopeless mad lover, Qays, who—like this man—had once lost his heart and mind to a woman named Leila:

  I love Leila passionately, the way the soul loves, and Love is a seducer!

  O Exile of the heart, among the sons of the Dahman you shall find her!

  I was stunned by the nerve of the man to ask me to help him in such a private matter—and one that concerned someone I did not even know. At the time, I did not take his story at all seriously. It was so strange—if it were true, it would only mean he was desperate and somewhat mad. It would raise suspicions to go around asking about a woman—a widow, no less! So I was not going to do it. Besides, how did he expect me to go asking around when it would only uncover the kind of old relationship that her family would hold against her? And what would the dead husband’s family think if they found out? If Adel wanted this done, he should go to Gaza himself and do it. Or was he smart enough to realize that he would be beaten to a pulp for asking? That may be why he wanted me to do it for him. The whole thing was probably a practical joke.

  I wrote back to Adel and let him know that I was not willing to play matchmaker for him, or to stumble around in the dark looking for his lost bride. I told him to travel to Gaza and look for his old flame himself—that is, if she really ever existed.

  Later, as time went by, I found myself using the story in the email as I began working on my novel. All I had was a premise for a story: after a long absence, a Palestinian exile returns to Gaza by way of Israel. The novel was going to be about how everything has changed in the years he has been gone.

  At the time, I was just beginning the novel and had not yet got into the details. When I began to write, I made this fellow—Adel El-Bashity—into the protagonist, and made him take the advice I had given to the real Adel El-Bashity who had written to me. He goes to Gaza and searches for Leila. And it was only later, at my wife’s suggestion, that I decided to go to Gaza to retrace the steps that Adel takes in his journey—and to reflect on the hardships he would experience in his story.

  And that is how I now find myself walking in Adel’s shoes—searching out Leila, for him and also for me. Looking for her in the novel and in the story I am living. Following her through the shadow of fiction and in the light of fact.

  Remembering all this gives me a sense of relief, and begins to make up for all the sleep I have lost. I turn the lights back on and connect my laptop to the phone socket. When I open my email, I find four new messages waiting for me. The first is an advertisement for penis enlargements. I laugh to myself as I hit delete. No thank you—it’s fine just the way it is. The second email is about a credit card, so I ignore it. The third is from my friend Leah Portman, telling me she’s just come back from Germany and that her tour there has been a success from what she could tell.

  The fourth email is a surprise. It is from Dana. I read it, not fully believing that this woman actually carried through on her promise to write to me.

  Hi Walid.

  I enjoyed meeting you. I hope you have arrived safely and been able to see your mother by now. I’ve been worrying about you since hearing about the bomber who tried to blow herself up at Erez. Are you OK?

  Dana

  I dash off a reply to Dana. I tell her that it has been a moving experience to see my mother again, that it has been intense and nerve-racking but also very beautiful. Being with family is like swimming in a deep sea of warmth and love. I thank her for thinking of me, and encourage her to hold onto her views about peace. Then I shut the computer, flick off the lights and get into bed again. I have no idea when I finally fall asleep.

  14

  ‘Your cousin Abu Hatem is coming over in the afternoon,’ my mother tells me as we finish breakfast. ‘He’s going to take you to Khan Yunis just like he promised.’

  Thus begins my third morning.

  ‘He’s taking you off to Khan Yunis even though I haven’t been able to spend any time with you yet, Walid. Don’t go off and stay too long. Maybe a day or two, and then come right back, OK?’

  ‘We still have a lot of time, Mama.’ I try to reassure her while I clear the dishes. After setting the dishes in the kitchen, I tell my mother I am going to go up onto the roof to see the view and catch a breath of fresh air.

  Over on one side of the roof stand the cages—from which the chickens and pigeons trumpet their pre-crepuscular greetings. I walk over to the low wall on the southern side of the building where I see a Palestinian flag wrapped around a wooden pole. It looks as if a whirlwind has twisted the cloth around itself until it choked. I unravel it, then hold it out by a corner. As I let go, it begins to snap and breathe in the wind.

  I stand there, my eyes wandering over the view of Jabalia and Beit Lahia. I look at the large open space between the Nasrite Building and the next one, to the west. I spy green and yellow and black flags fluttering here and there on the different buildings, each proclaiming the sympathies of inhabitants inside. The flag I used to salute is nowhere to be found among them.

  Off to the north, behind a patch of empty land, I can just see some houses surrounded by a sparse thicket of trees. When I squint, I can make out the faint outlines of a tall mast—a radio antenna in Dugit, probably.

  I breathe in the cool morning air and take out my mobile phone. Half sitting on the low wall, I dial the number I received in the email from more than a year ago.

  ‘Hello, is this Adel El-Bashity?’

  ‘Yes, it is. Who’s calling?’

  ‘Adel, it’s Walid Dahman. Do you remember—’

  ‘Of course! Walid, the journalist? Mein Gott! Where have you been all this time?’

  ‘Good morning, Adel.’

  ‘My God. I suspect you have something to tell me, otherwise you wouldn’t be calling.’

  ‘Adel—how soon can you come to Gaza?’

  ‘Where are you calling from, Walid?’

  ‘Jabalia.’

  ‘Really? I’m in Gaza right now myself. I arrived here three days ago.’ He is almost shouting into the phone. ‘I thought I was playing it safe to come through Egypt. Then I got stranded at Rafah for five days. Don’t ever go there. It’s nothing but sweltering heat and mosquitoes, and garbage and crowds. Screeching crowds. I’ve never been to hell, but I’m sure the entrance to it is nicer than the Rafah crossing.’

  ‘Listen, I need to tell you some news, but I want to tell you in person. Could we meet?’

  ‘Yes! I’m ready any time. Yours truly has nothing to keep him occupied.’

  ‘Let’s meet outside the Andalus Hotel at noon. How’s that?’

  ‘Perfect. I’ll see you then.’

  ‘Wait a second—how will we recognize one another?’

  ‘I have a copy of Jasmine Alley with me. I read most of it on the plane and in Rafah. I’ll be carrying the novel in my hand. And anyway, don’t forget—your picture is on the back cover.’

  ‘Right—see you then.’

  I hang up, not believing that I am going to meet the real Adel, a man I have never seen in real life. He might just end up pushing the other Adel out of my novel.

  I fly down the stairs to the apartment.

  We arrive at the hotel at the same time, and take a small table next to a window overlooking the sea. We sit across from one another. For the first time, there we are—me and Adel El-Bashity, face to face.

  Adel is completely different from the Adel in my novel. He is tall and broad-shouldered. His moustache blends into a closely cropped beard, the kind everyone seems to wear these days.

  Deep worry casts a shadow over his good looks. If I wanted to, I could put an end to his anxiety with two quick words. But instead, I decide to let him go on spilling his guts onto our little table. I ask him to update me on the latest developments in his search for Leila.

  The waiter brings
Adel a cup of coffee, and a cup of tea with mint for me. Adel sips his coffee while looking out at the sea, as if he might find refuge there. Finally, he turns to me and says, ‘All my efforts have sadly come to naught. I wish you had agreed to help when I asked. You would have spared me a lot of trouble.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘What happened? You tell me. On the phone, you implied that you had some good news for me. Can I hear what it is?’

  ‘Not until I hear what you’ve been through.’

  ‘Fine. I drove myself crazy looking for Leila. You know how touchy the issue is to begin with. Some strange man comes from Europe asking everybody about a fifty-year-old widow. And what I found out in the end was this. Some people told me that Leila died of cancer some time ago, but they couldn’t tell me where she was buried. Others told me that she was still alive, but they don’t know where she lives. I am exhausted and cannot go on like this. The people who say she’s dead can’t direct me to her grave. The people who insist she’s still alive can’t point me to where she lives. My Leila’s lost between two unknown addresses—one above ground, the other below—but I can’t find either. So here I am, still looking.’

  I laugh.

  ‘Are you making fun of me, Walid? Of course you would—any writer would think my story was pathetic and laughable.’

  ‘I’m not laughing at you, Adel. The people who told you that Leila Dahman died were telling the truth. And so were those who told you she’s alive.’

  ‘Please don’t talk to me in riddles—I’m confused enough as it is, Walid.’

  ‘Look, by accident I just found out that there’s a Leila Dahman who’s a neighbour of my cousin. I met her.’

  ‘So Leila Dahman didn’t die?’

  ‘Meanwhile, in Jabalia Camp West, there’s a woman—also a relative of ours—whose name is also Leila Dahman. She died of cancer just like they told you.’

  He pauses, and looks at me quizzically.

  ‘Look, I met the first Leila in person. She lives in Khan Yunis. She came with my cousin to greet me when I got here. When I asked my mother, she told me that the Leila who died of cancer was named Leila al-Sheikh Khalil Dahman. Her husband died shortly before she did—he was killed during a clash between Fatah and Hamas. The Leila who’s alive is Leila al-Hajj Darwish Dahman. According to my mother, her husband is also dead—killed by a stray bullet.’