I went up to Luda and kissed her on both cheeks. “Jamil’s rose is worthy of a lover like you, Ludichka,” I said, without a trace of hesitation or stuttering. “Keep our mutual friend, and look after him.” Then I left her room in the library, abandoning my fleeting dreams of Luda’s love. I took my defeat and left. And from that time, I had retained a strong friendship with both of them.
I recalled these incidents from our late adolescence as I listened to Jamil recounting the details of the year we had spent together in Moscow.
Suddenly, Jamil turned toward me and asked, “Do you remember the two roses, Walid?”
Before I could recover my composure, he hastened to explain. “The ones we bought from Leningrad and hid from each other?”
“Of course I remember!”
“Bozhe moi, oh my God!” Luda said.
“You still use Russian exclamations, Ludichka moya?” I retorted.
“Yes, when I feel emotional—because I’ve still got the two roses.”
“Bozhe moi!” I exclaimed in turn in Russian, not believing what she had said.
“Ever since Luda came to the country, she’s kept those two roses in a glass jar,” commented Jamil.
“Of course, because Walid’s is a rose of friendship and Jamil’s is a rose of love.”
Finally, Julie, who had been struggling to eavesdrop all this time without saying anything, interrupted. “I don’t understand anything, you sometimes speak Arabic and sometimes Russian. Look, I can say it as well: Bozhe moi!”
I explained the story to her, for she knew nothing about it, except for my friendship with Jamil. She wasn’t surprised or given pause by the past of three adolescents who had one day met in the same place.
In this way, our drive of more than an hour and a half passed, as we looked at the scenery and recalled warm memories. Whenever something caught the attention of one of us, he would exclaim in Russian “Bozhe moi!,” until Haifa opened its arms to us and we threw ourselves into its clutches.
3
Jerusalem
The day had begun to make way for a pleasant evening when we awoke from a well-deserved siesta. Soon, Julie and I were to go with Salman and Aida to the Nafura Restaurant in Jerusalem at the invitation of Dr. Fahmy al-Khatib and his wife Nada. And despite the short distance, we were to go in Salman’s Mercedes (a car that was much more sporty than he was himself).
I pulled back the curtain from the only window in our room and threw curious glances from lazy eyes over what lay outside, but I didn’t find the Jerusalem I’d dreamed of visiting all my life. Just modern buildings scattered all over the place—the sort of thing you could see in any European town, as if we were not in Jerusalem at all. As if Jerusalem was somewhere else.
Night fell, and we left the hotel in Salman’s car. He didn’t seem to know the city well. He commented like a tourist guide who hadn’t taken lessons in his profession or walked about the streets before. He would point out to us a corner or a landmark whose details were hard to absorb. He would show us little things he had generally only heard about. We looked and were astonished, each in their own way.
We parked near the Jaffa Gate, left the car, and crossed Omar ibn al-Khattab Square, then turned left, and entered Latin Patriarchate Street. We reached the Nafura Restaurant, which looked just like the other establishments around it, with their mostly blue old doors, and went in, one after the other. Once inside, we looked in more detail at the place where we would spend our evening, while the owner greeted us with traditional expressions of affection. Fahmy would later explain that it was his favorite restaurant, and that its owner was also a friend of his. The two men—who hadn’t met for a considerable time, so he would later inform us—embraced and chided each other, exchanging the excuses that people habitually use—“You know how busy things are . . . by God, I swear . . . ,” then, as he steams ahead with the rest of the usual formula, the other interrupts him, and says, “Don’t swear, man . . . I’ll divorce my wife . . . ,” and the first won’t let him finish for fear of him having to divorce his absent wife for the sake of a white lie.
Inside, the restaurant was a work of art. Tables covered with clean, neat cloths, with flowerpots between them holding roses that hid both pots and customers, and an enormous fountain in the middle, like those in old Damascus houses. The mezzes and grills were not much different from those served in other Levantine cities, but our being in Jerusalem gave everything the fragrance of the city. When the restaurant owner said that the wall directly facing me formed part of the Wall of Jerusalem (like the others, I had already taken my place around the table), a lot inside me changed, and I couldn’t stop reading what the stones said the whole time we were eating supper. After finishing our first course, Salman laid out the essence of Ivana’s instructions, along with our wish that Fahmy and Nada would help us carry them out.
The doctor seemed to understand the situation. He wasn’t shocked that Ivana’s body had been cremated after her death, though this was contrary to religious custom. “Why not?” he said. “In the end, every body turns to dust. Ivana, may God rest her soul, has merely taken a short cut.”
Nada rolled her lips uncertainly, suggesting a temporary disquiet. But she kept her disquiet to herself and did not translate it
