Bloodline

by Alan Gold

  He donned his cloak, walked from his office, and descended the steps that led to the heavily guarded gate in the Western Wall of the city of Jerusalem. The guards let him pass without hindrance and he descended the well-trodden path to the king’s palace. Weaving his way through the corridors to the women’s quarters and then to the upper levels to the queen’s chambers, he asked her steward for permission to enter. The arrogant man told him to wait while he went into the inner rooms.

  And Ahimaaz waited and waited. There was no chair on which to sit, so he paced the floor wondering, then worrying, why it was taking so long for the steward to return. Eventually, after what seemed an age, the steward threw open the doors to the queen’s chambers and told him to enter. The man didn’t bow—didn’t even lower his head in abasement—much to Ahimaaz’s growing anger.

  When he entered Queen Naamah’s apartments, she was seated on a raised chair, a replica of a throne, surrounded by women in gossamer dresses lying around the plinth at her feet, their breasts and hips and legs clearly visible through the voile. He was shocked at such a display. Under other circumstances, he could have been in the inner recesses of a pagan temple, in the presence of sacred prostitutes.

  Affronted, Ahimaaz looked at Naamah and said sharply, “Queen, when a high priest demands your attendance, you must come.”

  She sneered at him in contempt. “Little man, you are a high priest because I made you one. Yet, you sit in your temple and convince yourself that it was the Lord God Yahweh who put you there.”

  Ahimaaz was suddenly afraid for such words to be said aloud. “Silence. These women—”

  Naamah said quickly, “All Nubians, Ammonites, Egyptians, and Moabites. Not one of them speaks a word of Hebrew. And even if they could, I’ve had their tongues removed . . .” The queen stretched out the last words as if they were a threat.

  “I’m here about your son,” said Ahimaaz.

  “And what of him?” said Naamah, dismissively raising her eyebrow.

  “He is lazy, indolent, and unwilling to learn. King Solomon has commanded me to instruct him in the ways of our faith, but in all of the time that I’ve been teaching him, he has learned nothing. His mind thinks of little but hunting and sport and women.”

  “I provide him with enough women. As for hunting and sport,” said Naamah, “every young man needs distraction.”

  “You don’t understand, Naamah—”

  “Queen Naamah,” she said, her voice cold.

  “Queen Naamah,” Ahimaaz corrected himself. “If he doesn’t know and understand our laws and our ways, how can Solomon allow him to take over the kingdom? If he is disappointed, he will seek another son.”

  “And you will be sent into exile for your failure. But don’t worry, Ahimaaz, these things so important to you and your god are of little consequence to me. While my son will rule Israel, it will be me who rules my son, and my plans are much greater than your invisible god can contemplate.”

  “But . . .” was all Ahimaaz was able to say as the blasphemy echoed in his ears.

  “You people can see no further than your diminutive little city. Do you think I’ve worked so hard, used my body with such skill, just to be the queen of a sandy desert and the mother of houses made from stone? Go, Ahimaaz. Return to your little temple on top of the mountain and leave the running of the nation to those of us who understand what greatness means.”

  Before he could argue, she banged her foot on the plinth and immediately the door to her chamber opened, and the steward walked hurriedly over to where Ahimaaz was standing. He grasped his arm and tried to hurry him out of the door. But Ahimaaz held his ground and said to the queen, “I am the high priest of Israel. Do not dare treat me in this way. Control your son, Queen Naamah, or I will—”

  “What? What will you do, little man?”

  He swallowed. “I will curse him and forbid him to be the heir. I will refuse to anoint him when Solomon dies. I will—”

  Suddenly, furiously, Naamah stood up and walked swiftly down the steps until she stood so close to Ahimaaz that he feared she would push him over.

  “Listen to me, you ridiculous, disgusting little man. Go back to your temple and pray to your god that you never meet me again. For if ever I see you, and if ever I hear that you have used your office to curse me or my son, I will have you stripped naked and will order my soldiers to flay all of the skin from your worthless body. Now go. Get out of my sight. And never dare speak to me again.”

  Truly terrified, Ahimaaz left her chambers, his legs shaking and his head pounding. As he walked back up the hill toward the temple, he felt as though his head would roll off into the dirt.

  In the years since he had replaced Azariah as high priest, Ahimaaz had immersed himself in the richness and complexity of the rituals of temple worship. It seemed all he had wanted was fulfilled. People bowed and deferred to him, sought his counsel and wisdom. He could not have imagined greater fulfillment and even believed he heard the voice of his God in the stone of Solomon’s Temple. When he was in the Holy of Holies, alone in the darkness with just a single light to shine upon the Shekinah, he would stand still, barely breathing, and in his ears he could hear the breath of the Lord God. And when he stood even longer, the Lord God Yahweh told him what to do, how to behave, which of his priests to reward and which to punish.

  But lately the voice had faded and the stones of the temple seemed cold and silent. The other priests cowered before him, spoke only when spoken to. He was asked no questions and provided no answers. He had convinced himself that God himself had orchestrated his rise.

  Then he could think only of the small children’s top, a toy from his days of innocence, with its painted colors spinning on the floor. And the laughter of his brother . . .

  And now he couldn’t even hear that laughter. Now all he could hear was the cackling laughter of the queen as he was hustled out the door by the guards.

  Even before he reached the outer gate in the Western Wall of Jerusalem, even before he began his ascent to the Holy Temple, Ahimaaz stopped in his tracks and stood in the road. The guards looked at him, wondering what he was doing. Those worshippers who were going up to the temple carrying sacrifices, or who were descending after offering their prayers and sacrifices, stared at him. And then they rushed over to Ahimaaz when he fell to his knees and sprawled in the roadway in a dead faint.

  * * *

  October 20, 2007

  ALTHOUGH SHE’D BEEN strongly advised by both her colleagues and the police superintendent whom she’d consulted not to go into the village, Yael went nonetheless, and immediately regretted it. Israelis didn’t go to the Palestinian village of Bayt al Gizah, or to most other places that were predominantly Palestinian towns or cities. Even though Bayt al Gizah was just the other side of the valley from Jerusalem in Israel proper, ten minutes by car and clearly visible from the city’s eastern side, she’d never been there before. Cars had been stoned, Jews had been beaten, and there had even been several Israelis killed. Yet, Yael was determined to visit the village both to show that she wasn’t afraid and to fulfill a promise she’d made to herself: to find out just how she was linked by bloodline to Bilal.

  But now that she was parked on one of the potholed, unpaved streets and knew that those looking at her weren’t kindly disposed, she realized how foolish she’d been. Her car, for a start, made her stand out as a person to be detested. It was a late-model dark blue Honda sports car, and a world apart from the ten- and twenty-year-old pickup trucks and dusty Fords and Toyotas parked in the narrow hillside lanes of the village. Then there was the fact that she was a woman, exposing her face and her chest in a blouse that, while modest by Israeli standards, showed the beginnings of cleavage, an outrage in a medieval Islamic setting. She bought her clothes to look sharp and modern, from the expensive boutiques along the Mamilla shopping mall in the center of Jerusalem, in stark contrast to the traditional Arab clothes of men and women who, when they weren’t wearing a thawb or a hijab or a niqab, w
ore jeans and tops.

  And lastly, there was the fact that her long black locks of hair as well as her face were exposed for all the men to see because she wasn’t wearing a hijab or niqab, and her body was clearly visible because she wasn’t in a chador. Instead of covering herself, Yael was wearing the normal clothes she wore to work, a blouse and skirt that rode just a fraction above her knees, revealing the shape of her legs. She’d driven straight from the hospital just a short distance beyond the valley where her look was completely unremarkable in modern Israeli society to a traditional society where conservative dress and the restrictions on women were mandated by men.

  Indeed, it was only a few years earlier that a group of fundamentalist members of Hamas in Gaza, who called themselves the Swords of Truth, had threatened to behead women television presenters and reporters if they didn’t wear a hijab.

  As she walked toward the house, she wondered if her car would still be there when she left. It was easy to be angry at thieves, much harder to fix the poverty that afflicted many Arab neighborhoods in Israel. Yael knew this but still felt a mixture of anxiety and anger at the prospect of being a victim of theft.

  It was a modest house made of limestone blocks. The front garden was neat and there was a small patch of earth where lettuce, radishes, and carrots were being grown. The steep and terraced garden was intersected by a path that led to four stone steps and the blue front door. Yael smiled at the color; she’d been told as a child that it was painted blue because the devil can’t swim, and so he’d mistake the house for the sea and leave the occupants in peace. She just prayed that Bilal’s parents didn’t look upon her as a Jewish devil as she climbed the steps and knocked.

  Within a moment it was opened by an elderly stooped man, unshaven and with the ubiquitous cigarette in his mouth. He looked at Yael as though she were a visiting alien. “Yes?” he said in Arabic.

  “My name is Dr. Yael Cohen. Are you Bilal’s father, Fuad?”

  He frowned but the frown quickly became a strange smile. “You’re the doctor who . . . I wrote to you . . . You were on the television . . .”

  “Yes. I wonder if I could talk with you. Inside your home, if that’s all right?”

  “Is Bilal well? Has something happened? The operation? He was taken to prison?”

  “He’s fine. And no, he won’t leave the hospital until Friday.” She was nervous about being on the front step and spoke quickly. “I’ve arranged it so that he can stay a bit longer. He wants you to visit him before he goes to prison. I just need to—” But before she could say anything further, she saw that Fuad was looking beyond her, to the street. She turned to see that a group of about twenty young men had gathered around the front gate of the house, and while some were looking with interest, it was evident that others were looking at Yael with menace. Israeli women, especially those who came without men, didn’t enter Palestinian villages. They wanted to know why she was here, visiting Fuad and his family.

  “Excuse me,” Fuad said, and stepped from the house to stand beside Yael on the front step. He shouted to the group of men, “There is nothing here. This is the doctor who saved Bilal’s life. Leave now and go back to your homes. Everything is all right. She is in my protection.”

  With these words from Fuad they all left to walk back to where they’d come from. Fuad looked at Yael and said, “You will be safe now. Please, good Doctor, come inside. You will have tea and cakes. Yes?” And as if he’d just realized something important, he said, “Your Arabic. It’s very good.”

  Yael knew from her education at school of the legendary hospitality of Arab households, and to refuse an offer of food and drink was a great insult, so she walked into the beautifully neat home and was encouraged to sit on a sofa. As was Arabic custom, the sofa was actually a series of deep cushions, and so she sat on the floor, carefully adjusting her skirt for modesty while Fuad positioned himself to her right. Within moments of sitting there, two women, one elderly and the other presumably her daughter, walked into the central room of the house. Both women were carrying ornamental copper trays on which were arrayed a dallah, a traditional coffeepot with a long curved spout, and two small handle-less cups along with cakes. The women, whom Fuad didn’t introduce, placed the trays on the small three-legged tables and poured two cups of coffee. The smell of cardamom rose from the cups. Yael smiled when she saw the cakes, small diamond-shaped morsels and triangles of sugary, syrupy confections, full of honey and nuts and flaky pastry. Delicious, and although her diet would never allow her to eat such treats at home, she gladly accepted and relished their sweetness and flavors.

  As soon as the coffee had been poured, the two women retired from the room. Yael assumed that the older woman was Fuad’s wife and Bilal’s mother, and the younger was his sister. But as was traditional with Arab men, Fuad neither introduced them nor would he countenance them sitting in on the conversation.

  Alone, Fuad said, “You have come here to visit me. It is a great honor. My house is your house, my possessions your possessions. I wrote to you and I apologize for my writing because I am not a man of education. All my life I have been a construction worker; now I am boss of two construction gangs and I am a respected man in my community.” His chest was noticeably full of pride but deflated as he continued. “But I ask you, Dr. Cohen, why are you here?”

  “I’m here to ask you about Bilal, and yourself.” She sensed a moment of suspicion when his eyes narrowed, so quickly added, “Don’t be alarmed. Bilal’s health is good, and he’s well enough to leave the hospital, but I’m keeping him in for some days so that you can talk with him.”

  Fuad looked at her in surprise. “Is this usual in your country for you people to speak Arabic as well as you do?”

  She forced herself not to smile. “Your country”? she thought. “You people”? It was always like this, separated even though living beside one another. She wondered when it would all end.

  “We learn Arabic at school, and as a doctor I treat many Palestinians, so I have learned the beauty of your language and the wisdom of your thoughts.”

  Fuad nodded sagely, accepting the praise and compliment without comment. Yael heard a slight noise coming from the kitchen. It was obvious that the two women were close by, listening to every word that was being said.

  “If Bilal is well, why are you here? Don’t misunderstand. I am honored and grateful, but why have you come?”

  “It was through your letter that I discovered your address. Because of what he did, all Bilal’s personal records are kept secret, to protect you and your family. But the reason I’m here is because of a blood test that I ordered to be performed on Bilal before we operated on him. He has a rare and unusual blood group.” Fuad’s eyes widened, anticipating bad news as would any father speaking to a doctor about his son’s health. “Don’t worry, there’s nothing wrong, but the blood group is very strange, and I was hoping you’d be able to tell me where your family came from, your family history.”

  His concern turned to suspicion. “We are Palestinians. We were born in Peki’in. Near to the border with Lebanon. Why do you ask?”

  She knew she’d addressed the issue wrongly. It undermined him to be asked in such a direct way. The Arabic mind-set was full of twists and turns and, like the language, often relied on nuance to make sense. “As a doctor I have to understand blood. It’s blood that gives us life. And blood is something we pass from father and mother to son. Bilal’s blood is very interesting and rare, and I’d like to know where his bloodline comes from.”

  Fuad looked at her for a long moment, and she couldn’t perceive what he was thinking. Then, unexpectedly, he said with a smile on his face, “Bilal came from my loins.”

  The joke was strangely comforting, like the dry overt humor of fathers the world over. Yael let out a small laugh and Fuad continued.

  “My father was born in Peki’in. His father too. My family came to Palestine many years ago. I don’t know when. They say from Egypt, which is why our name is haMitzri.
In your Jew words, it means Egyptian. But we are all Palestinians. We’re told that we have lived here for many thousands of years. Our president Abbas told us that we Palestinians have lived in Palestine for over seven thousand years. Perhaps my family has always lived here. I don’t know.”

  “And Bilal’s mother, your wife? Where is she from? What’s her heritage?”

  Fuad looked at her strangely and asked quietly, “My wife? Why does she matter?” Fuad’s question was genuine, born of a traditional way of thinking about families and bloodlines.

  “Because—” Yael was about to explain the need to trace the maternal as well as paternal bloodline but Fuad suddenly cut her off.

  “Doctor, I thank you for treating my son. I thank you for saving his life. But you are asking about my family. And these are not things I will discuss with you.”

  They continued to talk for a little while, but it was obvious that he was immensely sensitive about information concerning his family. She knew that Arab families, as well as the tribe they belonged to, kept personal information very private, rarely revealing details such as this. She decided to leave, finished her coffee, and thanked him, asking him to pass on her regards to his wife, then she said that they should come to the hospital the following day if possible to visit Bilal.

  He stood and escorted her to the door. There was nobody left in the street, and her car was intact. But as she walked to her car, she wondered if Fuad was so sensitive about discussing his ancestry because it was a traditional Arab reaction, or because there was something he didn’t want others to know.

  * * *

  DRIVING BACK TO THE HOSPITAL in Jerusalem would take her not more than ten or fifteen minutes at the most, but driving out of the village of Bayt al Gizah seemed to take forever. Apart from the impossibly narrow streets and the precipitous drops on either side of the roads, which had been carved out of the steep hillside, forcing her to drive at slow speed, Yael felt horribly intimidated. Along the route from Fuad’s home to the outskirts of the village, young and old men had positioned themselves on both sides of the road.