Rashid: I do not fear your curses, nor do I believe your promises. No power on earth can give me peace. I have no place in this world. The paths are all blocked, the gates are all locked. There is heaven and there is earth and there are worlds upon worlds, but nowhere have I found as pure and holy a refuge as I have found in the body of this maiden. Here I am at peace like an infant in its mother’s lap and fear nothing. No! Do not make me leave! No oath will compel me!
Ra’uda’s echo: La, la tutruduni! La tahlefuni!
Samaher: Leave the body of the maiden Leah the daughter of Hannah at once!
Rashid: [Defiantly] I will not!
Ra’uda: La atruk!
Samaher: [Taking a small whip from her belt and lashing the doll while the audience gasps] In the name of the Lord of the universe, I adjure you for the last time. Depart from the maiden Leah, the daughter of Hannah! If you do not listen to me now, I will excommunicate you and deliver you to the angels of destruction.
(A terrifying pause)
Rashid: In the name of the Lord of the universe, I am joined and conjoined with my mate and will not leave her.
Ra’uda: Malsuk wa’mulassak ana bi’zowjati wala atrukha ila ’l-abd.
Despairing of getting the stubborn dybbuk to depart peacefully, the Arab rabbi strode with small steps to the leather-coated Nazim Ibn-Zaidoun—who, enchanted by the performance, was standing off to one side excitedly fingering his little pistol.
“O Archangel Michael!” the rabbi commanded him. “Have seven Torah scrolls taken out and prepare seven ram’s horns and seven black candles.”
But either this was as far as the rehearsals had gone or Ibn-Zaidoun had forgotten his lines, because, shaking with laughter, he saluted, bowed, and went to turn on the lights. Then, to the beating of the drum, which spurred the lute, the rebab, and the shepherd’s pipe to make music, he broke into loud applause. The audience followed suit. The lace curtain fell, and the older of the two boys snuffed out the candles. Samaher had tears in her eyes. Visibly moved, she pulled off her beard and earlocks and turned shyly to Rashid, who gallantly dipped the head of his doll to her. Yet when he gestured to his sister to join him for a curtain call, she fled the auditorium with her two sons, overcome by stage fright. The two cousins dropped everything and ran after her.
Rivlin, touched to the quick, turned to his wife.
“Unbelievable!” he exclaimed. “Simply unbelievable. . . .”
14.
THE TABLE, RETURNED to its place, was now a judgment seat. The judge was an elderly Scotsman. As a young man he had served with British intelligence in the Holy Land, where he had learned Hebrew and Arabic in order to investigate the “terrorists” of those days. Now a pensioner, he sometimes came to the Middle East to lecture at Bir Zeit University on “The Bounds of British Democracy.” It was this that qualified him to be the arbiter of the poetry contest.
He sat behind the table, a lanky thoroughbred whose eyes, too, were blue from sheer blue-bloodedness. Two panelists joined him, for balance: a pudgy Egyptian diplomat, in the area on state business, and the Tel Aviv critic-poet—who, however, could hardly be accused of bias in favor of his own people. At the last moment, the learned translatoress, having impressed one and all with her renditions of the mystical verse of Al-Hallaj, was added too. Her confidence had grown by such leaps and bounds that Rivlin easily persuaded her to accept the nomination “for the honor of Israeli Orientalism,” as he put it. Hannah nodded and ran a small comb through her stringy hair before letting herself be led to the table.
One by one, the contestants were called upon to read their verse. First, however, the rule was restated that the contest was for love poems only. No entries on political themes would be accepted, even if cast in such lyric form as a Palestinian lament for a field expropriated by Jews, a Palestinian dirge for an olive tree uprooted by Jews, a Palestinian elegy for the childhood memory of a fragrant orange grove built on by Jews, or a Palestinian threnody for the tears of an abandoned horse in a village destroyed by Jews. Likewise, there were to be no refugees, no occupations, no anti-Semitism, no Holocaust, no death, and no bereavement. Only love.
The contest had attracted a large number of competitors, old poetic hands and newcomers alike. Most were residents of Ramallah or nearby villages, though some came from as far afield as Jordan, and others were Arabs from Israel, several of them equipped with Hebrew translations of their verse. The Israeli contingent was small, even after being reinforced by an overweight and bashful German woman and a slightly tipsy American, both reading their verse in their own languages.
And yet, starting with the very first poem, it was evident that the elegy and the threnody, the uprooted olive tree and the tearful horse, were not so easily forgotten in love’s name. Not a few contestants sought to outwit the organizers by disguising their national grief as erotic outpourings for a stolen beloved, her splendid belly compared to a lost wheat field, the chime of her bracelets to the enemy’s machine guns. One old villager wrote a poem to his wife in which a younger rival for her affections was likened to a Jewish settler.
In his seat in the murmuring, smoke-filled auditorium, the Orientalist was growing weary of the same repetitive images in the same unchanging rhymes and meters, the gist of which had to be translated for his wife. The one poem he was looking forward to was Fu’ad’s—but the maître d’, intimidated by so many Palestinians from across the border, passed up his turn with a wave of his hand.
Intermission came at last. The audience flowed back to the buffet, leaving the Scottish judge and his panelists to tally their scores. Arabs and Jews stepped up to congratulate Hannah Tedeschi on her translations. Flustered by so much praise, she shrugged it off by explaining in tedious detail each mistake she had made while promising to correct them all in good time. “It was a brilliant idea of yours to get her away from that tyrannical hypochondriac,” Rivlin said to Hagit as he fondly watched his old classmate struggling to keep the attention from going to her head. The judge, well aware of her judiciousness, merely smiled at her husband—who, thinking he had caught a glimpse of the fluttering robe of the Lebanese nun, decided to go to the men’s room before the intermission ended.
The nun, however, failed to materialize, Rashid and his possessed women had disappeared, and even the men’s room proved elusive and was to be found only with the help of the poetry-reading coat-check attendant, who had resumed her position by the checkroom. Following her directions, the Orientalist climbed a staircase to the third floor. This was a loft whose wide-open windows failed to dispel the heated atmosphere of the loud young men and women gathered there, evidently more in search of love than of poetry. Several of the women had chosen to cool off by removing their shawls and letting down their hair.
There was a long line for the men’s room. In it was Fu’ad, looking as athletic in his tightly cut jeans as the young men around him. Noticing the Jewish Orientalist, he turned around and said loudly in Arabic for all to hear, “Please move up, Professor. I’ve saved a place for you.” When Rivlin, embarrassed, shook his head, Fu’ad moved back to join him.
“You look so youthful that I didn’t recognize you,” Rivlin said, almost grudgingly.
“Youthful?” The maître d’ laughed. “How can I be youthful, Professor? Look around you and you’ll see youth. I’m just without my dark suit and Miss Hendel bossing me. Come back to the hotel and you’ll see the tired old Fu’ad you know.”
The Jew looked at the Arab reproachfully. “How come you got cold feet?”
“How do you mean?”
“You didn’t read your poem.”
“You call that flimflam a poem, Professor? The poems tonight made me realize that all the juice has gone out of my Arabic. With the pepper and the hot sauce. I’ve hung around you Jews for so long that my Arabic is like a rusty faucet. Do you want them to think in Ramallah that that’s the best Abu-Ghosh can do? Better to listen and to learn . . .”
The line advanced slowly. From somewhere Rivlin m
ade out the rich voice of the Lebanese nun. His heart beating faster, he turned and spotted her on a balcony at the far end of the loft. Petite and smiling, she stood in the cigarette smoke of her choir of drones, looking bridal herself with a nun’s dickey over her white robe. With her was Ibn-Zaidoun, who appeared to be telling her a funny story, at which she burst out laughing in the same throaty tones in which Rivlin had heard her lament the death of God.
“Hadi hiyya ’l-mutribba ’l-lubnaniyya,”* he said excitedly to Fu’ad, who made sure to remain a half-step behind him as they neared the bathroom. “You’ll love her singing.”
The bathroom had two urinals and a stall. Although the Orientalist would have preferred the stall for privacy’s sake, a red arc above its door handle showed it was occupied. He took his place at the urinal, fumbling with his zipper. As he carefully pulled out his penis, the man next to him zipped his pants and walked away and Fu’ad slipped into his place. The Jew could not help stealing a glance at the Arab’s member. It was passing water with surprising speed.
Rivlin felt anger. He couldn’t relax enough to pee.
“It’s not the Jews who have ruined your Arabic, Fu’ad,” he said despairingly to the flower-patterned tiles in front of him. “It’s surrendering your freedom to the hotel.”
The plash of water stopped beside him. He continued, still looking straight ahead:
“When I beg you to tell me what happened with Ofer and Galya, and who was to blame, you just clam up. But I know you know, l’inno inta, ya Fu’ad, mowjud fi kul mahal.* You don’t give a damn how I’m suffering because you only think of yourself and of getting ahead. But where to? If you’re not free inside you’ll never get anywhere. You’ll end up writing elegies for yourself.”
The water flushed in the stall. Yet the door remained closed, and the next man in line lost patience and moved up behind them, waiting for someone to finish. Fu’ad, pale, looked stunned by the Orientalist’s words. He went to the sink, washed his hands quickly, and left.
Rivlin shut his eyes fervently and waited for the painfully slow trickle of his urine to increase. He had finished and was washing his hands, slowly squeezing detergent from a plastic bottle, when the door of the stall opened and out stepped Mr. Suissa. Had he overheard the conversation with Fu’ad? But what if he had?
“Well, what do you think of the festivities?” Rivlin asked. “Wasn’t I right, Mr. Suissa, that it was worth coming tonight?”
“Yes,” Suissa replied, “there’s always something to be learned. Those Sufi lyrics were golden.”
“And Hannah Tedeschi’s Hebrew translations? Marvelous.”
“They were. My son always said to me: ‘Doctor Tedeschi outranks her husband.’”
“And this Center—would you have believed it of the Palestinian Authority? Such a pleasant, elegant place!”
“I suppose so—if visiting a vipers’ nest can be pleasant.”
“A vipers’ nest?”
“Make no mistake about it, Professor Rivlin. They can stand and recite love poems all night, but they’re still vipers. Even that Arab you were just talking to.”
Rivlin, nettled, came to the maître d’s defense. “What do you know about him, Mr. Suissa?”
“Nothing, Professor,” Suissa replied, his face betraying no emotion. “Since my son was killed, I don’t know a thing. I’m listening and learning, just like your friend.”
Yet encountering Fu’ad waiting for them outside, Suissa dropped his eyes deferentially and headed for the stairs leading back to the second floor.
The top floor was emptying out. Even the young people who had ignored the poetry contest wanted to hear the Lebanese singer, whose white robe was still visible on the balcony. Her male chorus was gone, and she was alone with the festival’s director, who regarded her admiringly while smoking a little pipe.
Rivlin, convinced that the nun not only would but should remember him, set out in her direction. He was intercepted by Fu’ad, anxious to smooth things over.
“Don’t be angry, Professor. It’s been so many years. . . . Why should I be a tattletale? I wouldn’t even know what tale to tell.”
Rivlin just kept walking. “The truth is,” he said venomously, “bas al-mazbut—inta hiwif.”*
And he hurried to the nun without paying attention to the gray-haired Arab’s distress.
She remembered him. Who could forget a lone Jew in a village church in the middle of the night?
“Inti shaifi, ya Madame, ana anid k’tir,” he said to her with emotion. “Jit kaman marra ta’asma’ eish bighanu fi ’l-janneh. Bas hal marra jibt el-mara kaman. . . . ”†
She smiled gently. “Ahlan u-sahlan.”‡
He glanced at her bare feet in the plain sandals worn by her even on this cold, rainy night. Speaking in French to avoid embarrassing her in front of Ibn-Zaidoun, he said:
“I told my wife how you wouldn’t faint for me last summer. She joins me in hoping that this winter you’ll be more forthcoming. . . .”
If shocked by the Israeli’s forwardness, the nun was too well bred to show it. She merely gave him a lucid Christian look and said, with a hint of irony:
“Inshallah.”*
15.
THE AUDITORIUM WAS twice as full as before. It took considerable effort for Rivlin, one of the last to reenter it, to make his way to his wife over the Palestinians on the floor.
“I thought you’d been kidnapped,” Hagit said, more curious than concerned by his absence.
“Where to?” Rivlin said, stroking her hair. “Anyway, we’re kidnapped already.” In a whisper he told her of his encounter with the nun, who now entered to stormy applause. On the floor at his feet, he noticed Ra’uda in his wife’s old clothes with her two boys.
“Feyn Rashid?” he asked. “Feyn Samaher?”†
“’Round,” she said, using what Hebrew she remembered. She seemed worried by their disappearance.
The second half of the program was entitled “Christian Arab Song.” More folkloristic than the performance in Zababdeh, it was all in Arabic, with no Greek Passions or Resurrections. He glanced at the words of the lyrics, obtained by the translatoress. Although they abounded in religious references—how else would the convent in Baalbek have agreed to send the nun to the Holy Land?—the emphasis was, in the spirit of the festival, on God’s love. The musicians, too, were more richly polyphonic than the monotonous droners of Zababdeh, whose four male singers, now taking their place by the band, were augmented by three more hefty, gray-haired men in dark suits indistinguishable from themselves. Rivlin hoped that this ensemble, backed by a small but vigorous drum, would force the Lebanese singer out of her angelic bubble and into a confrontation with the world.
And it did. At first every line warbled by the little nun was resoundingly seconded with all its grace notes by the lute, rebab, and drum. Then, however, these were joined by the shepherd’s pipe, whose plaintive tones turned their agreement into a protest or question to which the Lebanese was forced to reply—which in turn forced the male choir to stop its droning and rebel, pained and incredulous, against the white-robed singer’s unshakable harmonies. It was hard to tell what was rehearsed and what was improvised. At times, despite her great vocal resourcefulness, the nun was surprised and thrown off her stride. Yet she not only recovered quickly, she rose to the challenge and added still more quavers to her answer until these lengthened into a single long appoggiatura that brooked no response.
Was this her way, assisted by the musicians, of preparing for the swoon that Rivlin was looking forward to? Were they wearing down her resistance with their repeated phrases until its precise point of collapse was reached, not by calculation, but by a true intoxication of the spirit? Or did they, on the contrary, fearing that too quick a loss of consciousness might end the concert prematurely, engage her in this complex dialogue to keep her from passing out from sheer boredom?
The Orientalist felt a tug on his pants. It was Ra’uda, drawing his attention to the rear of the audito
rium. There, in its crowded last row, was Samaher in a scarf, and behind her, her handsome cousin. His gaze zeroing in on the Orientalist, Rashid flashed him a V sign like the one Rivlin remembered from Zababdeh. Yet this time, he felt, there was something proud and debauched about it. Ra’uda, he saw by her frightened face, had the same reaction.
The nun’s singing had now infected the Ramallah audience, which swayed in its seats as if straining to join in. The musicians, prepared for such an uprising, changed tempo to nip it in the bud. Rivlin turned to his wife, wishing to share the experience. Her ironic smile left him uncertain that she was enjoying it. “Well, what do you say?” he asked excitedly, as if he were the nun’s impresario. “Doesn’t she have a wonderful voice?” Hagit gave her husband a pitying look. “I wouldn’t exactly call it wonderful,” she answered judiciously, while smiling at the Arabs bouncing up and down to the insurrectionary beat of the drum. “But it is special.”
Disappointed in her, Rivlin surveyed the rest of his entourage, hoping for greater enthusiasm. Hannah Tedeschi, bent over the lyrics that she was no doubt translating in her head, did not appear to be listening to the music. Mr. Suissa, on the other hand, had a look of wary satisfaction on his face, as if he had discovered here in Ramallah the Arab music he had been deprived of in his North African Jewish childhood.
O my Lord, who spreads the heavens,
We are purged of our carnality,
And the earth quivers with love.
Your long arm
Summons us to the Redemption.
The Liberated Bride Page 49
