There was a stocky young woman who I’d watched serving at tables. A taller young man had left as their customers dwindled, probably for a nap, I thought, or to buy food in the market for the evening shift. A Jewish family working an inherited franchise hard, I’d guessed.
She turned from wiping cups, showing her teeth but not smiling. She had expressive dark eyes – deeply loved by the man in her life, I supposed. They flicked me up and down, not rudely, almost imperceptibly.
“I’m so sorry,” I said in Hebrew, then in English: “I’ve lost my phone. I’m afraid it may have been stolen. I’ve no way of contacting my boyfriend to pick me up. Could I possibly use yours, just for a second?”
The briefest of pauses, then her face broke into a broad and effortless smile.
“Naturally.”
She started to disentangle a landline from below the shelf of the bar, then gave up and picked a mobile out of a breast pocket, from behind her order pad. I sighed that this was too gracious, apologetically, and she waved in dismissive generosity. The global sisterhood for needy phone calls to errant boyfriends trounced any curiosities she may have harboured of this Westerner, with poor Hebrew, in Arab clothes.
I pointed to the terrace and she said, “Sure,” in English. In the Jewish way, she’d gone for the whole hospitality sketch and had decided that I wasn’t going to run off with her mobile.
I didn’t need to gather myself; perhaps I’d done that on the wall. A swift internet search reminded me of Toby’s office switchboard number and I punched out his direct extension line with a jabby forefinger. I recalled it without pause. Prayer without words.
It rang out and gave me Toby’s voicemail, more serious in tone than he really was. I was committed, I knew that, and after the beep I didn’t miss a beat.
“Hi, Toby, it’s Nat. Remember me? Call me on this, why don’t you.”
I snapped the phone shut. The girl was standing in the door, wiping her hands.
“He’ll call me back,” I said, holding up her phone. She didn’t take it.
“Sit down,” she said. “I’ll get you coffee.”
I half-laughed. “I haven’t any money. Stolen too.”
“Pay me next time.” And she disappeared inside.
I sat down, the borrowed mobile in front of me. How quickly could they trace it? Do they have that sort of technology anyway?
I figured I’d sit for about half an hour, then move on. That way they’d only find this girl and her phone. And I’d try from somewhere else.
Suddenly I wasn’t sure what I was doing; I wanted Toby to come for me, not a hit squad. Pulling that off depended on how I floated my fly on their water. But I knew now I couldn’t trust my friends any more than I could give myself up to Burly and his pals.
The girl brought olives and figs and coffee in a small percolator. I didn’t wait long. Perhaps eleven minutes. Approximately. Who am I kidding, I counted them. The screen lit with the number I’d dialled. I answered but stayed silent, the girl watching me.
“Nat?”
“Who is this?”
“Bloody Nora, Nat, where’ve you been? We’ve – I’ve – been worried sick.”
That’s exactly what he said.
“Listen, Toby, listen very carefully. Don’t screw this up or I’ll never see you again, you understand? I’m in Nazareth.” He started to interrupt and I talked across him. “I want you to come and pick me up. But only you, Toby. Got that? Only you – and you tell no one, absolutely no one, that you’re coming. That’s really important, got that, Toby? I’ll know if you do and you’ll never see me again. Know that.”
“What’s going on, Nat. You OK?” I suddenly wanted to cry, a great wracking sob welling up inside.
“Not dead, Toby.”
I started to spit down the phone, my voice breaking.
“Not fucking dead. So you get here now. Alone. I’m in the square behind the Mennonite church, on the Latin side. Park opposite the building site next to the palm trees. It’s Giuseppe Market. You come alone in your little silver car, all right? Or – listen to me, Toby – the whole bloody thing goes off and we’re all dead.”
“Giuseppe Market. Nat, tell me—” But I hung up, weeping softly.
The girl was standing in the doorway. This time she looked severe and turned away. Oh, sod it, I thought, I give up, do your worst, call the police or Mossad or whatever. I’m finished. Spent.
But she returned almost straight away, with two glasses and a pichet of white wine, some bread and a pack of cigarettes. She sat, took a cigarette and pushed the packet towards me, without a word.
“I’m Esther,” she said after a while. “What’s your name?”
“Maria,” I said. I wanted to protect her.
I stayed more than that half an hour. Toby was on the case and I’d blown my cover, as I believe the argot has it. He’d had time, before he called me back, to speak to colleagues and record the conversation. I estimated that it would take him less than an hour and a half to collect his car and drive to Nazareth. He’d drive up the road that followed the exclusion wall of the Occupied Territory. That was certainly the way I planned to return. No papers for the West Bank.
Esther had gone back inside from time to time to collect small coffees and biscuits for the passing afternoon trade. She was from Haifa. Her brother owned the cafe, not a husband as it turned out, but she was deeply loved. I was right about that.
His wife had been unwell and had to spend time in a clinic in Tiberias. She’d had a hysterectomy
