Murder Under the Fig Tree

by Kate Jessica Raphael

  If they made too much noise, Chloe didn’t know. She woke five hours later, covered with a light blanket. There was a note on the mattress next to her.

  “Shopping for dinner,” it read. “Love you lots.”

  Jittery with nervous energy, Tina practically jogged down Rukab Street. What have I done, what have I done? she asked herself over and over, quickening her already frenetic pace. The fringes of her long shoulder bag rose and fell against her hip, like tiny whips, emphasizing that she had screwed up.

  “Shit,” she said, half-aloud, then glanced around to be sure no one had heard. Which wouldn’t matter anyway, she reminded herself, because they wouldn’t understand the English.

  Being with Chloe had been lovely. She hadn’t meant for it to happen so fast. But, when she’d seen Chloe’s hesitant, gap-toothed smile and always messy curls, touched her soft skin, she couldn’t control herself. And then Chloe had been all about Jerusalem, wanting to sink her teeth into the city, while all Tina could think about was sinking her teeth into that juicy, ample body.

  Chloe, of course, had no idea. Her insecurities were so deep, she couldn’t imagine how she made Tina’s guts dance. She couldn’t see herself the way Tina saw her: fierce Fury who could be as fragile as a five-year-old. Tina was going to have to tell her about Yasmina and the Palestinian lesbian group. She’d meant to get it out of the way first thing, over a sober cup of coffee, but, when they sat down at the Jerusalem Hotel, she couldn’t burst Chloe’s bubble.

  She wondered how Chloe would have reacted. Would react, because she was still going to have to do it. But, now, it would be a whole different football game. She could already see the betrayal and confusion clouding Chloe’s face. Chloe was always poised for someone to tell her she wasn’t worthy. Chloe should be flattered, because Tina couldn’t keep her hands off her. But Chloe would never see it that way, especially not after she saw Yasmina.

  Yasmina, who was a literal rock star.

  Tina turned into the grocery store, throwing random things into her cart. Sardines. Chloe didn’t even eat fish. Nutella. Chloe liked it on her toast in the morning. Bananas would go well with the chocolate spread. Hard cheese for grilling. Long-life milk so Chloe could have American coffee in the morning. Almond biscuits. Canned fava beans for ful. A couple mealy-looking apples.

  One of the things she liked about Chloe was that she didn’t try too hard. She didn’t imagine that if she stayed long enough or took enough risks or slept with enough Palestinians, she’d become one. Didn’t throw Arabic words into her English conversation. She knew who she was and who she wasn’t. That gave her a keen sense that she didn’t truly belong here, while her upbringing, as a Jew in a small southern American town, had made her hunger for belonging.

  Yasmina was going to be a big hurdle. Better wait a while.

  Tina hadn’t gone off on this walk intending to talk herself out of coming clean. She had thought she would clear her head, figure out what she needed to say, and how to say it. But the streets had a mind of their own. At least, that’s what she told herself. If it was the right time, the city would let her know it.

  She headed back to the apartment, heard the water from the shower, and got busy putting away the groceries. Soon, Chloe emerged, damp and glistening, from the bathroom and started Tina’s innards quivering again.

  “Sleep well?” Tina asked, studying the vegetables she had just put away.

  “Mmmm,” Chloe responded. Crossing the tiny kitchen in two steps, Chloe came up behind Tina and wrapped her arms around her waist, crotch to butt. Tina whirled, vigorously shaking herself loose.

  “You can’t do that,” she snapped, gesturing at the gaping window pane. Tina had opened the blinds to catch the fading sunlight.

  Chloe retreated sulkily, and Tina heard her in the living- and bedroom, rummaging through her suitcase. Tina should go and make sure her feelings weren’t hurt, but she didn’t feel like it. She started pulling vegetables back out of the fridge. She would let her makluube do her apologizing for her.

  Chapter 3

  The days were getting warmer, but the evenings were still cold in Ramallah.

  Even in his leather jacket, Daoud shivered. The nearer he got to the looming Wall with its high watchtowers, the colder he felt. He zipped the jacket up to his neck.

  He hung back for a while, watching people come and go. To his left, people moved easily, returning from Jerusalem to Ramallah without interference. At this hour, people poured out of taxis and teemed through the open gate, stopping to shop at the makeshift roadside stands where you could buy everything from warm bread to bathmats. Old Palestinian cars zoomed through, dust mingling with exhaust. The drivers leaned on the horns when passersby were slow to move aside or when traffic snarled in the narrow intersections. Just beyond, he could see the minarets of Qalandia refugee camp, a quarter mile away, but off-limits to Palestinians without Jerusalem ID.

  To his right, cars stretched as far back as he could see, two abreast, with more arriving all the time. They too honked, but only to blow off steam. The new arrivals knew there was nothing the other drivers could do to speed up the checkpoint. He watched as a VW Rabbit with half its fender torn off veered around an orange taxi piled high with luggage on top. The taxi driver stubbornly refused to pull back and let the VW in.

  Even this chaotic assembly looked orderly, compared to the crush of bodies pressing toward the turnstile where the pedestrians went through—if they were lucky. Those like him, who had no permit for Jerusalem, could wait for hours only to be turned back, or worse. It was six o’clock and still light out. Next week, the time would change, and then it would be light even later. The longer days were a blessing for the farmers and for people who had a long way to travel to and from work. It was not so good for him, though. Under cover of darkness, he could often still find a way around the check-point—a hole in the fence, a place where the Wall was not quite finished, or where the sections had been wedged ever so slightly apart. Six months ago, even in broad daylight, he could always find a way through to Jerusalem. But in the last months, the Israelis had sealed up the Wall around al-Ram and Qalandia, and, now, increasingly, the only ways through were the official ones, which were closed to him.

  The two turnstiles, each as heavily fortified as a medieval castle, loomed in front of him like a dare. The old, handwritten signs had recently been replaced with brown, metal placards proclaiming the right line for foreigners and people with blue Jerusalem IDs, the left for Palestinians with green West Bank ID cards.

  Daoud would not get through either turnstile legally. He edged closer to the crowd, looking for a young mother he could perhaps befriend. Men and women went through separately, but, if a woman had several small children, and he offered to carry a couple of them through, she might be grateful enough to protest that he was her husband, that one of the babies was sick and they needed to get to a hospital quickly quickly, the soldiers would be impressed with his love for his children and wave him through.

  No good candidates for that ruse presented themselves tonight. He looked up at the ugly, concrete Wall looming on both sides. It seemed to grow higher and thicker every time he came, its towers rising ever more menacingly. Not for the first time, he imagined coming here with some sticks of dynamite and lighting the fuses, watching the stone crumble. It would not make any difference. They would build it again the next day, twice as high and twice as deep. But he would not care, because he would be dead and, before he died, he would have known what it was to be free for just one minute.

  He shoved the fantasy aside. Bombs and such were not for him. He had considered it, of course, while he was in high school. All the boys in his circle had. A few of them had actually joined the militant resistance, picked up guns, blown themselves up, taking an Israeli settler or soldier or two with them. One of his best friends was in prison now; he had meant to be a bomber, but had been caught on the way to detonate his belt. Probably Daoud would never see him again. He put his friend out of his m
ind. He could not dwell on such miseries when he was on his way to entertain, to make the audience love him, and be made love to in turn.

  He abandoned the turnstiles and instead strode up the line of cars. In between the turnstiles, two soldiers hunkered back to back in a metal booth piled high with sandbags. Each balanced a long rifle on one shoulder, aiming it at the window of the first driver in line, ready to shatter both the window and the driver’s head if the car moved prematurely. Daoud leaned against a light post and smoked a cigarette. Four soldiers worked the cars in teams of two. One of the teams was methodical, doing everything just the same with each car, taking this out, then that, asking the same questions of each person. The other team obviously enjoyed mixing it up. They would sometimes look in the trunk, sometimes tell everyone to get out, now take the driver’s keys, turn the radio to a Hebrew station and turn it up loud. He needed to avoid those two like rotten meat.

  He examined the others, the quiet ones. One was tall and the other short. The tall one had sunken cheeks and a bushy beard; the shorter one was muscular and clean-shaven. His cocoa-colored face was impassive, and he spoke to the people in broken Arabic, using the respectful terms haj and haji for older people.

  When the musc man stretched between searching cars, Daoud cleared his throat. The man looked up at him.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “To go to Jerusalem. To Adloyada.”

  “Adloyada?” Daoud was sure the soldier knew what Adloyada was. He just wanted to play naïve.

  “I have to get there soon. I’m JLo Day-Glo.”

  A flicker of a smile passed over the young man’s lips, but, as quickly, it was gone.

  “Do you have a permit?”

  “Would I be standing here if I did?”

  “Sorry, it’s not possible.”

  “Perhaps we can go there together.”

  “I’m on duty.”

  “Gadi,” called the taller soldier. “Yalla.”

  Daoud grimaced. He hated that the Israelis had appropriated the Arabic “let’s go” into their stupid language. Gadi, as his partner had called him, might have noticed Daoud’s expression or maybe he was just annoyed by Daoud’s familiarity. He grabbed Daoud roughly by the arm.

  “Come over here,” he snarled.

  Daoud felt panic welling up inside him. What had he done? He was flirting, sure, but if the guy wasn’t interested, he could pretend he didn’t understand. Was he a closet case, a homophobe, or both?

  “Let me go,” he hissed. “I didn’t mean anything. Forget it, I’m leaving.”

  Gadi ignored him, twisting Daoud’s wrist so that he yelped. He frog marched him away from the cars to a green metal hut, shoved him inside, and closed the door. The smell of urine and rancid beer assaulted his nose. His stomach churned, and he choked back a little vomit. It was pitch dark, and something squished under his foot. He hoped it was chewing gum or the remains of a chucked-out sandwich. He couldn’t breathe. He was going to die in this tin can, and no one would ever know what had become of him. The cell was too short for him to stand without stooping. He put his jacket on the ground and sat on it, folding his long legs up under his knees and hugging them. He didn’t like the idea of his prized leather jacket being soiled with whatever might be on this filthy floor, but better the jacket than his pants.

  The metal of his jail rattled, making a hollow thwang. Latches slid back with a loud creak. Quick, think, what to say? What to offer, what to beg for? He had to get out of here. A slot in the door opened, and a shaft of light pierced the blackness. The harsh glare illuminated a shaft of flesh, Gadi’s penis, he assumed. Daoud shifted on the floor until his mouth was in the right place. He said a quick prayer before opening his mouth and taking the prick inside.

  He could smell and taste the contempt of the prick’s owner. Once again, he almost gagged. He wondered if the soldier had put his gun on the ground, or if he was even now standing with his hand on the trigger. Daoud sucked and sucked and finally felt the squirt in his mouth. He gave a final lick and pulled away. He hoped the soldier could hear him spit the sperm on the ground. Too late, he considered that Gadi wouldn’t be the one who had to sit in it. It would be the next poor guy who tried to get through the checkpoint. He should have done it in the corner. How much longer would he be here? He needed to get to Adloyada.

  The door flew open. “Come on,” Gadi said. Daoud could see no sign in his face of what had just happened. He wondered if it was a nightly occurrence, like drinking coffee. Gadi took his arm, a little less roughly than before, but not gently. He led him to the front of the line of cars and opened the door of a cab.

  “Do you have room for one more?” he asked. The cab was full, five adults and two children, but a woman took one of the kids on her lap, and the other passengers good-naturedly shifted around to make room. Gadi waved them through.

  Daoud glanced at the two young men sharing the back seat with him. They were nicely dressed for a night out, black slacks and polo shirts. They gave each other a high five. No doubt, they had been anticipating a problem at the checkpoint too. Daoud hugged himself, wondering if the sour smell was coming from the jacket or his own skin, The cab dropped him off at the top of the Mount of Olives. He caught a servees down to Damascus Gate and, from there, walked quickly down HaNevi’im Street and ducked into the small alley called Shushan. When he caught sight of the gray stone oasis, he thrust the memory of Gadi and his moments of panic and humiliation behind him. He opened the door, and a rush of warm air, pungent with beer, wafted to greet him. Mordecai, an elfin, Jewish Israeli with sparse, brown hair, danced over and kissed him on the lips.

  “JLo, thank God. You’re on in fifteen minutes.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be ready.”

  “You had no problems with the checkpoint?”

  Daoud hesitated for one second. His friend’s eyes had already wandered to the bar, where the bartender was pouring vodka into a row of shotglasses.

  “Not too bad,” he said.

  Chapter 4

  The thick, black bars of Rania’s cage dropped from the heavens and plunged into the center of the earth. Flat, horizontal bars ran along the top and bottom of a narrow doorway, whose enormous lock required three different keys to unlock. If anyone could ever break out of this cell, it would not be through the door. The gap beneath the door left just enough space for a tray conveying a plate or shallow bowl. They had given her a cup the first day, and she filled it with water from the rusty sink in the corner. When they came with breakfast, she held up the cup, and they poured the coffee through the bars. If she didn’t feel like getting up, she didn’t get coffee. The preference for coffee first thing in the morning was one thing she had in common with Israelis. Most Palestinians drank tea with breakfast, and coffee was a mid-morning treat, but she had always liked to start the day with bitter coffee grounds between her teeth. Of course, the Israeli coffee was barely worthy of the name.

  She thought it was about half an hour until the guard would come with coffee and toast. She got up, splashed water on her face, and tied the hijab around her head in case it was a man who came. Not that she really cared if foreign men saw her hair, but Bassam would care. She rummaged in the small bag of clothes he had sent after a few days, when it became clear that there had not been a mistake, that she would not be getting out soon. He had sent three pairs of socks, one red, one black, one white, almost as if he had anticipated what she was about to do. But then he would have included a green pair.

  She took one black sock and went over to the door. She couldn’t reach the top bar from the floor, but when she wedged her left foot on top of the lower cross bar, she could just barely reach if she stretched as far as she could. It felt good to stretch. It was awkward trying to tie the sock into a knot around the thick bar while balancing on one foot and stretching up. After three tries, she got it done. She hopped back to the floor and retreated to the bed to admire it. Not much really. Just a little black flag swaying slightly in the w
arm draft that did not reach into her cell. For the first time since they had brought her here, she was eager for the police to come, to see what they would say.

  She exercised to pass the time until breakfast. She stretched, ran in place, and stretched some more. She could barely reach the little windowsill with her fingertips. She tried to hoist herself up, partly to see if there was a view of anything outside, partly just to see if she could do it. She couldn’t.

  “What are you doing?” Rania turned to see Tali, the breakfast in her hands and exasperation on her freckled face.

  “Exercise,” Rania said in English. She didn’t know the Hebrew word.

  “It’s forbidden.” She used the Arabic word, mamnuah. Probably the only Arabic word she knew.

  “Everything cannot be forbidden. Why should you forbid me to care for my body?”

  “You can exercise, but not with the window.”

  When Tali arrived with lunch, a white sock dangled next to the black one. Still, she did not react. Rania was a little disappointed, but it was also good, because if Tali had taken them down, Rania might have lost them for good. Of course, there were two of each, but Rania wanted to get at least one full set hung. She battled the temptation to do it all at once. She suspected she would be here a long time. Biding her time was good discipline.

  She needed an activity, to pass the time until she could make her next move. She looked around the cell for anything to make into anything else. She found pretty much nothing. Perhaps she should learn Hebrew. Wasn’t that what all the political prisoners did? That was why some of the top ex-fighters had ended up in roles that worked most closely with Israelis, after Arafat came back and set up the Palestinian Authority. She didn’t really want to know Hebrew. If she ever got out of here, she would be happy never to talk to an Israeli again. But, last year, during the case that had led to her imprisonment, she had wished she had a better command of Hebrew. She had had to rely on others for information she would rather have been able to gather for herself. Most of the top officials in the Palestinian police had occasion to use Hebrew sometimes. If she planned to move up—and she definitely did—she should know Hebrew too.