by Jemma Wayne
Safia makes the noise again. I don’t like it as much as the question mark eyebrows. She takes a long sip of her wine and studies me. What is it about girls and looking? Orli does this too: looks, looks. I grin. She smirks sarcastically back. Then very deliberately she forks another piece of chicken and slowly, seductively places it into her mouth. She takes a long time to chew. Still looking. I look boldly back.
“It’s really good,” she says eventually. “This chicken. Sure you don’t want to try just a bite?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
“Just one bite?” She stabs another chunk and dangles the fork in front of my lips. Suddenly I feel irritated.
“No thanks,” I say less jovially.
“Fine. You could be missing out on the most delicious morsel you’ve ever tasted, all because you’re too stubborn to even let yourself think about why you’re not eating it. But that’s fine.”
“I know why I’m not eating it.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s how I was brought up.”
Safia sighs and I am about to relent, to expand, to start philosophising about the fragmented parts of my self. But then she asks, “Does Orli keep kosher?”
“No, actually,” I say. “She loves prawns.”
The throat noise comes again. Then a pause. Then the eyebrows. “I do want to meet her,” she says.
***
Now
12
It is harder than Udi imagined for him to actually go. It has been a year in the making. It has been arguments and headaches and hard work. Now, at last, his ticket is in his hand and his documents are in a folder in his hand luggage and his father is starting the car for the airport and his mother is on the sofa next to him. And Udi smells falafel.
Perhaps it is the unravelling nature of goodbyes.
First, there was a Friday night dinner. As well as the swathes of cousins and uncles and aunts his mother had invited, each with their own opinion and advice, his brother Ari was there. Ari congratulated him. He also told him that he is mad and that Israel is the greatest country in the world and that he still thinks Udi should return to the army, but also he is proud. Avigail said far less. She is holding back, Udi supposes. Holding back her lecture and her disapproval, because he knows this is what she feels, but all she told him was to stay safe and to dream big, and gave him a notepad in which on the first page her kids had drawn pictures of aeroplanes and she’d inscribed a short poem that he doesn’t really understand. He wishes he did understand it, because when they parted there was an uncharacteristic shakiness to her smile.
Next, there was a beach barbecue with his friends. Officially it was a send-off for Chaim too who had been promising for months to join him in London, but yesterday Chaim found a cheaper flight to Barcelona. Still, he brought weed.
“Don’t go getting all British on us,” Dov had said at the beach, between puffs. “No crazy ideas about driving on the left okay?”
Udi had laughed but Dov pushed on. “Seriously, Udi, things will be different in London. You’re expecting this, right?”
“Of course,” Udi had replied. “I know, of course.”
“But really different. Here, we know how everything works. I can arrange to speak to the Prime Minister in one phone call.”
“I can do it in two,” Yael had chipped in.
“It would take me four,” said Udi. (It is a frequent conversation of theirs, to see how many degrees of separation there are between them and the highest office in the land. Most people can do it in less than five.)
“So okay, how many would it take you to call David Cameron?” Dov had demanded.
Ella didn’t come to the barbecue. He had had to tell her of course. Not the morning after he opened the envelope, despite his mother’s prompting eyes, nor anytime during the three days that followed, but finally. They have been on-again-off-again ever since. Blazing rows. Tears. Sex. But now they are off and he is leaving.
He called her last night on the phone: “I still want you to come with me.”
“I still want you to stay.”
“What if we got married?”
There was silence, for a long time, then he’d heard her swearing under her breath, and then finally she’d demanded: “Udi, was that actually a proposal? After almost five years is this actually how you’re going to propose to me?”
“No. It wasn’t a proposal. It was hypothetical, I just wanted to know what if.”
“Well you’ll know what, if you ask me, Udi,” she’d said, and would probably have slammed down the phone if he wasn’t the very next morning going to be getting on a plane for London. As it was she could manage only one further word: goodbye.
But it didn’t feel like a proper goodbye. It wasn’t how he’d wanted to leave things. It is no wonder that he smells falafel.
“Turn your cup,” says his mother.
Oz is outside making sure that Udi’s bag has been packed properly into the car, that the battery is not playing up again, that he has petrol. Udi has already done this twice. He has not slept.
Inside, Batia has brewed him a thick, muddy coffee and they have spent the past ten minutes drinking it, saying little.
“Turn your cup,” she says now, and because he feels guilty he obeys, allowing the consolidated sludge at the bottom to seep down the china sides. He leaves the cup however upside down on the saucer and does not hand it to her. Resting it instead on the table in front of them, he nods, then stands up. He will not stay for her reading, which he doesn’t believe, and fears might be bad.
His mother nods back at him, stands too, hugs him hard. “You will be careful,” she tells him, a plea wrapped up as an instruction. She takes his face into her palms. “I will speak to Yarden. Tell him if there is something you need.” Yarden is Batia’s brother, Ben’s dad.
“I will be fine Ima.” Gently he pulls her hands away. “I can take care of myself.”
“I know,” she says. “This I know.”
“Y’allah.” Oz appears at the front door.
Giving his mother a final kiss, Udi accepts the container of sambousak she has prepared for him and checks his documents one more time before following his father to the car.
Oz drives. He does not speak, but he drives. Udi has not been driven by his father in many months and is not sure, in the silence, what to do with his hands. He takes out his phone and begins scrolling through messages, half thinking one may pop through from Ella, but it doesn’t. Still, he keeps his phone in his hands. It isn’t that he doesn’t want to talk to his father, he does, very much so, but he fears that words might endanger the fragile bond they have resurrected at a time when there are few moments left to fix it. The silence lasts. Over the bridge. Onto the motorway. Signs for Ben Gurion Airport begin to appear.
“It is very hard to start again,” Oz volunteers abruptly.
Udi puts down his phone. His father’s face is heavy, pulled downwards. This is it. The words. The breaking of bonds. A recalling of that fleeting faith. Udi remains silent and prepares himself to bear it, to bow to his father’s opinion one final time.
“We had just some clothes and each other,” Oz says. “They gave us a tent and they gave us food but we had no money. Our bank accounts had been frozen by the Iraqi government. Our house was taken. At the border the valuables we’d carried with us were confiscated. Young people don’t know this. They think we came and we conquered, but we were turned out, we were refugees. Israel is our only home. And we came to it with nothing.”
Udi stays silent. He dares not speak.
“For two years we lived in this tent. Not a hut, not even wood or tin, Udi, just soft material separating us from the sun. I was lucky, I went to school for one more year and then I went to the army. It was better than the tent. Even when there were wars, and there were lots of wars, it was better than the tent.” He reaches a junction and turns towards the airport, cutting in front of a car on his left. “After that I went to the kibbutz. Of course you know
this is where I met your mother.” The driver of the offended car has pulled up by their side and is swearing at Oz loudly, but Oz is almost smiling now. “We worked very hard. It took us much time but slowly, slowly we saved money so we could buy a small patch of land and build a house. Our house, Udi, this is where my tent was, on this same bit of land. I built it. I helped to build Israel.”
They have reached a junction and Oz looks directly at his son. Here it comes, there is only one way the conversation can go now – the entreaty to stay, the obligation to do so, the duty. Apprehension seeps back into Udi’s stomach.
“I am proud, Udi, that you should want to do this for yourself,” says Oz. “To make something for yourself. It is good.”
Without meaning to, Udi claps his hands. Loudly. The sound reverberates in the small car.
“But it is hard, Udi.”
“I will work hard,” he speaks finally.
“I know you will,” says Oz.
The airport comes into view. Udi would never have guessed that it would be his father driving him here, his father giving him these parting words, his father believing in him. He reaches out and squeezes Oz’s shoulder. It still feels strong. Oz places his hand on top of Udi’s. He nods. Udi returns the nod. And smiles. And as he opens the door to the car, that smile between them holds. Udi breathes in deeply, a hot, dry breath full of the future before him, the one he has his father’s blessing to find. Still smiling he turns towards the airport. At last he is free. At last. Finally, now, in this moment. Yet, in the same moment, there is a sinking feeling. Because in his liberty he is also alone. And he cannot help thinking of Ella.
Inside, Udi joins the long security queue and, without Ella, feels immediately impatient. He hopes this sensation is fleeting because otherwise it is an anti-climax. Like waiting for his first army assignment. After the months of training, preparing, readying, he’d wanted it all to be worth something, he’d wanted to do something, but waiting was all there was to do. Waiting. For the purpose. For his purpose.
The queue moves slowly and after a while Udi lays his bag on the floor in front of him, kicking it forward inch by inch. While he waits he checks his documents again and fiddles with the shrapnel that is always in his pocket. Four female security officers are controlling the queue, three of them younger than Ella, though not as beautiful. Ella again. It occurs to him that she would be surprised to know how much he thinks of her. It occurs to him that he should tell her. But perhaps it is too late for that. There is a pang in his chest. A physical pang. But he forces his attention back to the travellers in front of him. It is easy to tell the tourists apart from the Israelis. As they are questioned they grow flustered, acting suddenly as if they have something to hide, the innocent whitewashed with guilt. I’ve been in Tel Aviv on business, he hears one young man saying. Yes, I have family here. In uh, Herzliya. Their name is. Jesus what is it? Fischel. Yes, I am a member of a synagogue. Hendon Reform. No, I don’t speak Hebrew. Yes, I can read it, I learnt it, but I can’t speak it, I mean I can’t understand it. No. No. My rabbi is called…um…oh, Jesus, sorry, I can’t remember. Yes I am a member I just can’t remember. I’ve been here three times. The last time was 2003, no 2002, no 2003. Yes I am sure. Yes I am a member of a synagogue… Udi cannot help but laugh. The officers are not interested in the answers, only in the manner with which people respond. It is the surest of all airport security – people talking to people; machines do not know what is at stake. Udi is always interrogated closely. He has an Iraqi surname so the officers take special note. Today it feels like the final obstacle, the final barrier to his escape. But suddenly he is through. And his bag is through. And he has his ticket. And there is nothing else in his way. Udi is unable to quite believe it, to believe that this is it, that he has done it, and he has an urge to turn around, to cast one last look back. Because he is not coming back. He knows this with certainty. So he looks.
And behind him, she is there.
She is staring at him as though she has been standing in her spot for some time. Now she lifts her hand and waves. He waves back. She walks forward a few paces. He covers the rest of the distance. “What are you doing here?”
“I forgot- I forgot to tell you something.”
“What?” His tone comes out aggressive. He doesn’t know why. It is surprise, he thinks. Surprise and pleasure at seeing her, and desire. And caution. “What?” he repeats, more softly.
“I forgot to tell you that I love you, Udi.” She pauses. Not with uncertainty, but as though all at once she is entirely sure of herself, and of him, he who is leaving. “And that I’ll come. Not now, but when I’m finished studying, if you still want me to, and if you still like your London, I’ll try it.” More tourists brush past them, and more Israelis, more bumps in their path. “I will come,” she repeats steadily.
In the midst of the airport bustle, the midst of the watching people, Udi has an urge to sweep Ella into his arms and lean her backwards and kiss her. He should do it. She would love him to do it. But he is afraid. Not now of guns and bombs and men who wield them, but that if he takes hold of her now he will never let go. Instead he reaches into his pocket where as always the shrapnel sits, warm from being handled, and he gently presses the hard pieces into her palm. She knows what they are. He has told her – only this one story and only part of it – but enough for her to understand.
“Bring them with you,” he says. It is the nearest he is able to get to a promise.
***
It was light already. They had walked through the night but now it was light and Udi had expected to see something. To see something change, something different.
“Okay,” said his commander. “So as you know we’ve been in Gaza for 20 minutes now…”
As you know.
Udi hadn’t known anything. They hadn’t been told anything. And the transition had been seamless. He could look behind him and still see Israel, still see the skyline, still see the place he was there at dawn to protect.
Arriving in London is the same. The plane is a microcosm of Israeli society and while he is still on board he feels as though he has not yet left, not completely. Israel sticks to his skin. Even as he walks through the halls of Heathrow he feels it like sand between the toes.
He could see rockets being sent out from the land in front of him, flying to the place behind. To houses with Israelis in them. He was not just walking towards something, he was going to do something good. He believed this. He had a reason.
He has a reason.
If something were going to happen, it would happen.
If something is going to happen, it will happen.
He begins to prepare answers to questions he worries he might be asked by border control, he invents stories to explain problems the officials might find, he digs into his bag and retrieves Ben’s phone number. His legs burn.
But he is not even delayed. His papers are inspected, approved, stamped, and he is ushered past the customs desk. Then he is in baggage reclaim locating his minimal belongings and all at once he is ambling through the green-lit corridor with nothing more to declare.
Ben is waiting for him. They greet each other and hug fiercely. Ben is dressed in jeans and a shirt but he seems more tailored than Udi remembers, his shoes are un-tattered, his face shaven, his watch expensive. He tells Udi how excited the family are to see him, how his mother has been cooking for two days straight. Udi asks about work and when he will begin, but Ben tells him to relax. He’ll take him to his flat tomorrow, he says, show him the restaurant, show him everything, but tonight he is not to think about work. Tonight he is only his cousin who his parents are longing to see.
The smell of rice and sambousak hits Udi as soon as he enters the house. The next thing to strike him is the noise, the familiar sounds of chattering relatives, kids running wild, and pots and pans clanging together, announcing the feast.
A strange sensation builds inside Udi. He is not sure if it is excitement or foreboding, comfort or anxiety,
ease or utter panic. Yarden and his wife, Gail, greet him warmly, and in the same breath tell him that his mother wants him to call. Dutifully he takes out his phone and heads into the hallway. He should call. He is an adult and he is here and they did not in the end stand in his way. He should call, he owes them that. But the feeling persists, and he has only just arrived and doesn’t yet know what it means. Besides, he doesn’t want this, whatever it is, to be explained to him by the dirty, crusted remnants at the bottom of a coffee cup.
***
The days that follow are filled with both action and inaction, an unhurried frenzy of introduction to his new life, the pace of which requires some adjustment. Ben takes Udi to the restaurant the following morning as promised, but not until after a late breakfast that stretches on until midday. The delay disconcerts Udi and makes him think of his father. When they arrive however, he loves the place at once. The restaurant has a hip, urban vibe with a traveller theme. South American music plays through the speakers, the walls are covered with maps, photographs, and souvenirs from far off lands, and the food, served by young, trendy waiters is a fusion of international cuisines. Ella would like it too, this food, these booths, this retro chandelier. It is a Monday but the place is packed. Udi feels an unusual sense of peace amongst the hubbub and finds himself brimming with ideas. He is introduced to the waiters and kitchen crew who will be working under him, and to the manager who will be moving to the new restaurant. They arrange for Udi to shadow him the next day, to show him the ropes, but neither Ben nor Jonny appear to have any doubts in Udi’s abilities. Udi wants to prove them right, to begin, to start, to do. But Ben and Jonny don’t want to loiter here. The restaurant is only a preamble to the rest of what they want to show him: first a car parked outside and then the flat. They lead him upstairs, apologising about the smell from the restaurant kitchen and the noise from the diners. But it is perfect. The bedroom is larger than his one back home, there is a spacious open plan kitchen/living room already fitted with appliances and furniture, a small but modern bathroom with brand new tiles, and there is air conditioning. Udi laughs when he sees it.
